


Dusk

by MsSolo



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Background DamiJon, Coming Out, Crossdressing, Didn't Know They Were Dating, Fluff, Genderfluid, Grooming, Jaytim - Freeform, M/M, Past DubCon, Recreational Drug Use, batfam, first fic in forever, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2019-06-17 17:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15465999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsSolo/pseuds/MsSolo
Summary: Tim's given everything for the mission, maybe too much. He compartmentalises all the aliases, the undercover work, Red Robin, Timothy Drake-Wayne, but he's not sure what's left that's actually him any more.Jason knows his Replacement better than anyone else. He's studied him the way Tim used to study Batman and Robin. And yet, sometimes, the kid still managed to surprise him.





	1. Friday Night to Saturday Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I haven't written any fic in years, and I'm going to be straight up about the odds of me actually finishing this. But I fell back into DC a few weeks ago when I realised the fandom was in the same place I was (basically treating anything post 2011 as a nice AU with elements to incorporate into fanon) and discovered JayTim.
> 
> Canon-wise, this is mostly pre-nu52 stuff, but I've borrowed elements from more recent comics as well (namely, the adorableness that is Jon Kent). Fudging together the ages a bit: Dick is mid 20s, Jay is 21, Tim is 18, Damian is 13. Steph is Batgirl, Cass is Black Bat, Babs remains Oracle.
> 
> This is all unbetaed (typed straight into AO3). I'm a bit old skool fandom, in that I'm really terrible at replying to comments because I'm used to the days when you had to make your very own website with a separate page for each fic, or put it on FF.N (which didn't used to allow replies to comments). But comments and kudos are appreciated!

He's up on the mezzanine, watching the crowd below for one of Falcone's dealers, when Jason spots Tim. His first thought is the Replacement must be working a case on his territory, and he's pissed, but as he watches he realises that can't be true. Tim's dancing with the kind of friendly energy Jason associates with ecstasy, grinding against anyone who gets near enough. He's wearing black skinny jeans under a white sundress with little stars all over it - and isn't that a little revelation all on its own? - that's see through from the foam that fell from the ceiling earlier. There's a lot of glitter smeared around his face that catches the strobe lights, and even from here Jason can see the kid's pupils are completely blown.

He gets distracted, watching him, and only comes back to himself when he spots the dealer he's looking for weave past Tim towards the toilets on the ground floor.

Jason follows his mark with a pang of disappointment. He slips a domino out of his pocket as he follows the dealer into the unisex toilets, and it's clear as soon as the guy sees him he recognises Red Hood.

Jason crowds him against one of the sinks, conscious of the club kids milling around. Someone's getting blown in one of the cubicles, and in the queue for the others it's clear other couples have the same idea. People are applying make up at the sinks, snorting coke off the hand dryers, and generally milling around. It's almost busier than the dance floor.

The dealer leans back against the mirror, trying to put a bit of space between Jason and himself. Jason wraps his big hands around the sides of the sink, framing the guy, and leans in further.

"This is my territory," Jason says. "You don't work for me."

"I could," says the dealer.

"No, you couldn't. Falcone knows that. You gonna give him a message for me?"

The dealer pales, and gulps. It's clear he's thinking of the kind of message delivered in a body bag, but there's too many witnesses here for that (and the Replacement, out there somewhere). It's nice to know his reputation precedes him, though, and Jason lets him stew for a couple of seconds.

"You're going to give him a message," Jason says. "You're going to tell him to get the fuck out of Hood territory, or Hood is going to get up in his. He knows how messy I can make things." He lets go of the sink with one hand and sneaks it into the dealer's inside pocket, pulling out a baggy of pills. "I don't want his cheap shit around here. Everyone knows he cuts it with fucking laundry detergent." 

He doesn't want any shit around here, which he's pretty sure Falcone knows, which is why he's risked sending a dealer onto Jason's turf. The easiest way to keep other people's drugs off his turf would be to have his own supply, but he's not willing to do that, so instead he gets to patrol all the nightclubs, kicking out guys who are more scared of their bosses than they are of him. Idiots.

Jason grabs the dealer's mouth with his free hand, using his hips to keep the guy pinned in place. He forced the dealer's jaw open, slipping a couple of fingers inside - right back to the guy's wisdom teeth - to stop him closing it. He holds the bag of pills open over his mouth and gives it a shake. Pills rain down the guy's front, bouncing off the sink and across the floor. He crushes the ones he can reach under his boot to stop the keener kids snatching them off the floor. Only a couple make it into the dealer's mouth, but that's enough for Jason. He doesn't actually want the guy to die of an overdose (at least, not with dozens of witnesses who saw him force feed him the pills), just to give him the kind of night that should make him rethink his career.

"Fucking tide pod shit," Jason says, pulling his fingers from the dealer's mouth and smashing his jaw shut. He holds the guy's nose until he's forced to swallow. If he's smart, he'll have kept the pills under his tongue so the reflect doesn't carry them down to his stomach. He doesn't look smart, though.

"If Falcone wants to bring this shit onto my territory, he better return the invitation, understand?"

Jason lets the dealer go, then, and steps back. He makes sure to stomp on as many of the rest of the pills as he can on the way out, but he's sure some have been 'rescued' already. He should let the bouncers know, so they're keeping an eye out.

He pockets the domino mask as he leaves the bathroom. It's ridiculous, really, but it's symbolic. The point is not to disguise the fact that the guy who entered the bathroom in jeans and a leather jacket was Red Hood, nor that Red Hood left the bathroom in the same jeans and leather jacket. The club is what makes him anonymous. Dusk's patrons are young and needy and scared of what the world thinks of them. They only talk about Dusk with other people they've seen there. It doesn't even have a sign over the door, and the queue to get in (when it does occasionally build up) is hidden by an alley.

Back on the dance floor he sees Tim again, still dancing. It's been, what, nearly two hours? Kid hasn't stopped. 

Jason makes his way over to the bar and grabs a couple of bottles of water. He lets the bartender know he's dealt with the dealer, but to watch out for ODers tonight. The bartender looks more pissed than grateful, reminding Jason a bit of Dick, which makes him happy to break the conversation off there.

He has to lever a few people off Tim to give him the water. He takes it, blinking up at Jason for a second before apparently deciding not to care. His pupils are still massive, and Jason can see now the glitter on his face must have started out in a domino mask shape, which makes him smirk. Tim smirks back, as much as he can with his wet lips stretched around the water bottle. He drops the empty bottle on the floor, grabs Jason's hips, and starts grinding against Jason's thigh.

Fuck it, he's already paid his dues this evening. Why not have a bit of fun?

#

By three am the club is starting to clear out. Tim's coming down, but he's still handsy, and he's still hard. He's starting to realise that he might feel differently about Jason's thighs in the morning, but it's too late to do anything about it now so he might as well enjoy it while he can. He's always liked those thighs. Bare legs flashing across roof tops in the Gotham night, a very different physique to his predecessor, and adolescence had hit Tim like a freight train in his dark room, staring down at those thighs slowly emerging on the photographic paper like a magic trick. Red lights still make him horny.

He knew this was Jason's territory, of course. Every night he'd been working the case over the last three weeks he'd been conscious that Dusk was on Jason's turf, but he hadn't seen him once. He'd thought it would be a safe choice tonight, too: no chance of running into Dick or Bruce here. He hadn't expected to see Jason, either, but it was working out okay.

The fall air slaps his sweat damp face, cold and damp, and a whine escapes his throat. He doesn't even remember leaving the dance floor. He's still moving like he can hear music, but it's only his ears ringing. Everything smells weird and the street lights glow with a hum, or hum with a glow. He wants to touch them, but Jason's got his heavy arm around Tim's shoulders, pinning him to the sidewalk.

"How," Tim tries, and starts again, and tries again. "How do you do that? With your arms so heavy?"

"How do I what?"

"Do..." Tim gestures. "All your limbs are heavy. How do you move?" All his own limbs are heavy. God, he's tired.

"I'm a strong guy," Jason says, which Tim guesses makes sense. "What were you doing in there?"

"Letting off steam," Tim says. It's not true, but Jason doesn't know about the case, and it's better it stays that way. He wrapped it up last night, but he hasn't filed a report yet, so anyone checking will assume he's still working on it. Perfect alibi. That's a weird work. Alibi. A-lee-bee. All-ibbi. Al-eye-bye. A-lie-bye. A layby?

"On your own?"

Oh, right, Jason.

"Yeah."

"Do you know what you took?"

Tim nods. "Leftovers from a bust last week," he said. "Tested it at home." Leftovers from Larry.

Jason huffs at him.

"Are you judging me?"

Jason looks at him then, holds him with a gaze that's as heavy as his arm. The silence stretches out longer than Tim is comfortable with, but he knows his perception of time isn't great right now, so he stays quiet.

Jason sighs.

"You cold, Replacement?"

Tim nods.

Jason shucks off his leather jacket and slings it around Tim's shoulders. It's huge on him, longer than his dress, and it's warm.

"I want a cigarette," Tim says, to see what happens.

"There's a pack in the pocket," Jason says. "Where am I taking you?"

Tim wrinkles his nose at the question, and thinks about it. He sure as hell doesn't want to go to the Manor in this state (oh god, if Damian saw his dress. Oh god, Jason's seen his dress) and he doubts Jason would want to go there either. He's got a safe house nearby, but he doesn't want Jason to know he's got somewhere in Jason's territory, either. There's the Nest, but that's way over the other side of the city and he's cold and tired.

"Replacement?"

"The subway," Tim says. He can double back to the place nearby if needs be; otherwise he can ride it over to Burnside and take the worker's tunnel to the sewers, and the place he's got in a cellar over there. It's an old bar that's been condemned but not torn down; the tunnels date back to prohibition and if it wasn't for the fact the place is damper than the docks he'd be using it almost daily. Well, that and the risk of running into Steph too often. Everyone's so territorial in this town.

Oh hey, they're at the subway. How'd that happen?

Jason presses a metro card into Tim's hand. "I'm trusting you to get yourself home, okay?"

Tim nods. "I'm trusting you to... I'm trusting you too," he says. He doesn't know what with.

Jason turns him towards the steps, and Tim feels his eyes on him as he descends, making sure he doesn't trip over his own feet. It's... not a bad feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim's dress is this one: http://www.asos.com/asos/asos-design-mini-square-neck-sundress-in-star-print/prd/10196933?CTAref=We%20Recommend%20Carousel_11&featureref1=we%20recommend%20pers
> 
> There's nothing like buying a dress as a curvy thirty-something cis woman and thinking "You know who'd look hot in this? A fictional teenage boy." But I look cute in it too!


	2. Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still undecided on how angsty to make this, but I'm drawing back from going off the deep end (there's a similar set up for a very dark hurt-comfort fic I could do, based on Tim's case here, but I don't know if I'd be able to see it through). However, some stuff definitely seeps through, and Tim's need to please Batman by seeing a case through isn't good for him, and takes him to unhealthy places. 
> 
> This chapter (and the subsequent ones) contains references to grooming and the implication that an adult in a position of power has had sex with underaged teens. Jason is leaping to conclusions, but they aren't big leaps.

Jason calls in a favour with Babs, who seems happy enough to indulge him that he's not sure it even really counts as one he owes her. The Replacement has been working on a case in his territory - sent a report through the daddy Bats the day after Jason saw him - and Jason grits his teeth as the edges of his vision turn green. He hates it when any of them do it, but he hates it when Tim does it most of all because of the history there. Wearing his clothes, answering to his name, taking over his cases, stumbling around his turf. Like, what's the point of Jason not even being dead any more if everyone else just carries on like he's not there? Doing his job for him?

He takes the pit rage out on a couple of human traffickers, and when he's still edgy after getting home he rage cleans his oven, which makes him feel better enough that he decides he can actually cope with reading the report Babs forwarded to him.

Scarecrow had been testing something new on teenagers, and someone had been supplying the teenagers for him to test it on. Tim had included a bit of speculation about the drug - intended to sell as a new kind of high? Something to give you that horror movie buzz? Or something he was going to target at high schools to cause chaos? Not enough info to say - but mostly the report was dry, just a list of events leading up to Tim finding the supplier. A guy called Larry, the right side of middle aged to move among the kids in the club without attracting too much suspicion in the dark. School guidance councillor at the kind of swanky high school Replacement probably went to. A couple of warnings for spending time with students outside of work, but nothing official. Got flagged as a possible suspect due to a spike in suicides at the school.

Bile rises in Jason's throat and he has to put the report aside for a moment and breath through his nose until it recedes. He's reading between the lines, and he tries to tell himself he doesn't have to. Bruce is a fucking awful parent in a lot of fucking awful ways (he had Steph beaten almost to death to teach her a lesson for being like Jason, he put Damian back in the Robin suit after he died in it, he let Jason die in it) but he wouldn't knowingly send one of his kids out to bait a paedophile. Would he? No. Probably not.

He turns back to the report, and Tim's efficient prose settles his stomach for him. Larry was just a dealer. Started with prescription meds, then moved onto harder stuff. Almost exclusively dealt to the kids at the school he worked out. His supplier had made the connection to Scarecrow. He'd go to Dusk to 'bump into' kids from the school he worked at, tell them he couldn't sell them anything there - it was Hood's territory, and he was damn right not to deal on Hood's territory - and invite them back to his place to party, encouraging them to bring friends.

The kids went willingly. Larry would hold two or three parties with the same group, singling out from observation the kids Scarecrow would want. Tim doesn't elaborate on Larry's criteria, and it's a glaring hole in the otherwise thorough report. Once he had them, he'd meet with them individually, tell them about Scarecrow's drug, persuade them to attend a "medical trial". Tim notes wryly that it's probably better informed consent than some legal ones, but again, he doesn't elaborate. When Larry had half a dozen kids, he'd send them all over to one of Scarecrow's lab. 

Larry was taken into custody yesterday, charged with dealing to kids. The school is already doing damage control, hushing the whole thing up. 

It's all well and good, and as pissed at himself as he is for not noticing Larry at Dusk himself, Jason has to admit he doesn't visit the club all that often. Its profile has been rising on Gotham's gay scene, but it's small and sweaty and cards people, and he doesn't have half the trouble with it that he does with some of the other bars. 

Either way, there's no chance that Tim was still working the case when Jason saw him. He wouldn't have taken the risk to be anything other than sober. Was he genuinely letting off steam, then? Wrapped up the case took some souvenirs from Larry's stash, and treated himself to a night on the town? It didn't fit what Jason knew about the kid, and if he was honest with himself he knew the kid better than anyone else. Better than his parents, who hadn't realised he was slipping out at night. Better than Bruce, who couldn't tell when the kid was lying to him. Better than Dick, who took Robin away from him without thinking, and better than Damian who couldn't see the parts of Tim that were most similar to himself. Better than the Titans who couldn't understand how much he'd changed while they were dead. 

Maybe Batgirl... but she probably didn't know about the dress, if Jason had to guess. 

Yeah, he knew his Replacement better than anyone else. And there was definitely more going on that night than blowing off steam.

#

Tim successfully manages to ignore his memories for three days, until he runs out of clean(ish) clothes on his floor and is forced to open his closet to find some more. Jason's jacket is hanging there, looking as out of place as the white dress Tim hung next to it, amongst all the blazers and polo shirts that make up most of his Tim Drake costume these days. He swallows, hard, and slams the closet shut. Yesterday's shirt will go another day.

It's not the jacket, really, that bothers him. It's the dress, a little, and the fact Jason saw him in it a lot. It's... It's Dominic. He was Dominic for two weeks, wearing that dress, and the glitter, and enough kohl to satisfy an Egyptian queen. Genderfluid Dominic, pansexual Dominic, sex positive Dominic, try anything once Dominic, so convinced he knew everything he was easy to manipulate Dominic, easily groomed Dominic, scared of the future Dominic, secretly self-hating Dominic, the perfect disguise Dominic. And then Tim had wrapped up the case and he hadn't been ready to let go, not entirely, and he hadn't thought it would matter. He wouldn't be anyone, for a night, just a guy in a club in a dress, and then Jason had come along and turned him back into Tim and suddenly he was Tim in a dress in a club, grinding with his sort of brother, and his brain keeps stuttering to a stop every time he gets close to that thought.

He needs to return Jason's jacket to him, and then get rid of the dress, and just leave it all behind. Compartmentalisation, that's the key to this life.

His phone buzzes, and there's a message from Bruce.

"Tim. Please collect Damian from school today. A is unavailable, and we don't want a repeat of the bus incident. Bruce."

Tim is more than happy for a repeat of the bus incident, but he can see why Bruce isn't. He acknowledges the message, and texts Tam to ask her to clear his afternoon so he doesn't get stuck in a meeting and let Bruce down.

While his phone is in his hand, before he can overthink the decision, he also texts Jason.

"Where should I return your jacket to?"

There's no answer by the time he has to leave for Wayne Enterprises. There's no answer when he gets there, and none by lunch. Still nothing when he leaves for Damian's school, and he wants to go back in time and shake his earlier self for cursing him to a whole day feeling like this, anxiety gnawing at this stomach, heart thumping in his ears, sweat beading on his skin (he bought a new shirt at lunch, in the end). Jason's going to ask him about the dress. Jason's going to ask him about the ecstasy. Jason's going to ask him about why his replacement thought it would be a good idea to rub his stupid dick against Jason's ridiculous thigh for hours. And Tim's not going to be able to answer any of his questions.

And now he has to spend time with Damian, on top of everything else.

#

He's listening to a bug he placed a couple of weeks ago in the back room of Ma Granita's, a Sicilian ice cream parlour, when he hears a familiar imperious tone. Ice cream places are good for money laundering - any food service place where it's easy to fudge the portion sizes is, but Jason completely gets why a lot of gangs go for ice cream parlours, because why the fuck wouldn't you? Plus, Sicilians make good granita, everyone knows that. The Cosa Nostra have several joints like this for money laundering, and some day Jason is going to drop by during opening hours for a change and actually try some.

Jack Inzerillo has been hanging around the back room, alternating between talking about a shipment coming into the docks on Thursday and hitting on the diary maids. Jason's got everything he needs from him to crash the delivery, so he focuses on the voices from the cafe that are drifting through the hatch. The Demon Brat's voice _carries_.

He's ordering for two, Jason realises - a rose water and cardamon ice for himself and an orange blossom with extra syrup for someone else. And then there's another familiar voice, the Replacement, asking for a lemon ice. So, three people, but not the third isn't Dick or Bruce or Alfred. One of the batgirls, maybe? He doesn't get the impression either of the younger Robin's has many civilian friends. To be honest, it's a bit of a mystery why they're there together.

Ah, fuck it. It's mid afternoon and he's got nothing better to do, and maybe he'll get something else on Inzerillo Junior while he's there. 

By the time he gets there Tim is herding two kids out of the door. Tim's dressed like Tim again - suit trousers, jacket over his arm, pastel blue shirt that looks fresh out the packaging, tie sticking out of his back pocket - and Jason has a moment of dissonance matching baby broker Tim to club kid Tim. Let alone Red Robin, he supposes. The kid puts on personalities like second skins, and Jason wonders what happened to the real boy, buried under all those puppets. The will o' the wisp with a camera, haunting Gotham's skyline. What would that kid have grown up to be like, if Jason had had the temerity to _live_?

He shakes off the thought and pulls a pair of binoculars out. Replacement, Demon Brat, and... Ah, the Super Baby. He'd heard Damian was palling around with him. Everyone needs their own superbuddy, Jason supposes. The kid is younger than Damian, but only a touch shorter, and he's wearing primary colours that make him look more out of place in Gotham than Batman on a beach in Aruba. Tim looks twitchy and impatient, and rather than walk all the way down to the crosswalk he cuts through the standstill rush hour traffic. Damian and his friend follow, the kid reaching out to grab Damian's hand as they weave through the honking vehicles. Well, ain't that cute?

Inzerillo leaves the parlour by the back exit, drawing Jason's attention away from the baby bats. No rest for the wicked.


	3. Monday Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My husband isn't in fandom (well, only football fandom, and the traditional side of that, not the AO3 side, which is how I got into it) and sometimes try and explain fandom tropes to him, like Wing Fic and Coffee Shop AUs. He's very convinced that I ought to throw this aside to write a Pub AU where Batman is the landlord and the Robins are all bartenders and the rogues are the regulars, because why set something in a coffee shop when you could set it in a pub? So if anyone's got a Pub Landlord AU they want to point him at, go nuts!
> 
> (direct quote: "What if it's a pub where everyone has wings?")

Tim officially can't take it any more. He's suffered through a day at work (well, a day of Tam doing everything while he drank coffee), he's suffered through an afternoon of chauffeuring Damian and Jon around (and had to pay for all of their granitas only to be banished to a separate table because Damian had chosen a two-seater), he's suffered through an evening of stilted conversation over dinner because Bruce can't string two sentences together without being distracted by a case (would it kill him to just ask how someone's day was? Anyone's? Jon had been so confused and Damian was clearly mortified by his father's rudeness and for once Tim was entirely on his side). 

He is 100% done with waiting for Jason to reply to his text. 

He's just going to take the bull by the horns. 

Just do it.

Just.

Okay, first he's going to deal with this mugging. 

#

Babs lets him know little Red is in his territory again. 

//He might be following up on the case, if you want to touch base with him// scrolls across the feed inside his helmet.

Jason snorts. "Who you been talking to, Barbie? B had you writing business cases again?"

//Mamma needs a new pair of shoes, baby.// [Accompanied by a gif, which is a new touch](https://78.media.tumblr.com/b1aa51049b795b67d673359391e6c143/tumblr_inline_oectl4Xc1x1shrb8p_400.gif). //Specifically, mamma needs a new server and a lead lined back up, because Calculator did some damage last month.//

"Let me know if you need a hand," Jason says. "I come with my very own tool kit and everything."

That gets him another gif, of a stripping builder, which is followed by Red Robin's coordinates.

Jason grins inside the helmet

The Replacement is sat on Dusk's roof, feet dangling over the edge. His bo staff is folded down to half length and he's propping his chin on it, the other end between his legs. So many jokes crowd Jason's head he doesn't dare make any of them, because he know it'll come out as something like "is that a staff that's pleased to see me?"

Besides, the Replacement shouldn't be here, and needs to be reminded of that. Jason doesn't want to start getting friendly with the kid now.

Friday night, the kid with one leg shoved between Jason's, riding his thigh like a fucking pony, grinding his hard on against his hip, hands roaming under his shirt... Jason takes a step back, hoping the Replacement hasn't seen him yet. Because, okay, sure, it might be a little be late to start worrying about "getting friendly" but he's still not going to let his dick take the lead in this conversation.

"Hood?"

Jason takes a deep breath, thinks unsexy thoughts, and returns to the edge of the roof he's standing on, just across the road from Dusk.

"Replacement."

He waits, and Tim takes the hint, grappling over the street to join him. 

"You've been busy," Hood says. "Didn't think to let me know you were working my patch?"

Red Robin extends his bo staff to its full length. Jason tenses, but apparently the kid is just in the mood to lean on it tonight.

"Gotham Prep is in my area, and Batman was looking at the Scarecrow. Apparently no one told the citizens of our fine city which borders not to cross." He cocks his head against his staff. "O tell you?"

"Shared your write up," Jason says. "Funny, didn't mention that you were off your head on MDMA and had to be hand fed water by a mortal enemy at any point. Was that before or after you took down the pervy guidance councillor?"

Tim's knuckles tighten on his bo staff for a split second, and the bottom falls out of Jason's stomach. When Tim speaks again, though, there's a rueful quality to his voice.

"With mortal enemies like you, who needs friends?" He stands up straight and rolls his shoulders back, retracting his staff and shoving it into a unseen sheath under his cape. "I owe you, for that. I need to return your jacket, too." There's something pointed in the way he says it.

"Yes?"

The Replacement sighs. "You've changed your number, haven't you?" he says, but he doesn't sound like he expects an answer. "Burner phone, of course. Should have just asked O." He reaches up and pushes his cowl back. His hair is stuck to his forehead, a couple of strands long enough to tickle his eyelashes. Jason's impressed at the kid's strength of will; it must have been driving him nuts. There's a reason Jason keeps his short under the hood.

"You owe me half a pack of cigarettes, too," Jason says. He considers, and takes his hood off as well, but he's got a domino underneath. Tim had smeared his glitter domino all over Jason's t-shirt, that night, and he's still finding bits of it in all his laundry. He wonders if he can get Tim to do something about that, too.

"I haven't smoked them," Tim says. "Dominic smoked, and I was still... I don't know, still in character, at least a bit."

"Dominic?"

Jason sits on the edge of the roof and pats the concrete next to him. It's not a great space to be sat, hoods off, opposite a night club and all its CCTV, but Jason knows where the blind spots are and he suspect Tim does to. Every now and then a gaggle of clubbers wander out of the anonymous building opposite, covered in glitter or foam or their own sweat, steaming in the night air. A group of baby drag queens totter along the sidewalk in their first-time-out heels, roped together with feather boas like gay mountaineers. Two of them have used glitter to create domino masks. Jason casts a sideways glance at Tim.

"Dominic was my undercover persona," Tim says. "Rich kid, liked playing with gender and sexuality, recreational drug user, social smoker." He fiddles with the edge of his cape. "He was... different... to the sort of undercover I usually do. The kind of kid who's painfully young and naive and has no idea he is, you know?" He swallows. "The kind of kid I might have been, I guess."

"You put a lot of work into your back stories," Jason says. "I just stick a fake moustache on and go."

Tim laughs. It's a quiet, restrained little sound, and Jason isn't sure how genuine it is, but even if Tim's just playing his role in the social contract it's nice to hear. This is the longest conversation he's had that hasn't involved threatening someone in... oh, he doesn't want to try and calculate that, just in case.

"When I'm bored at Wayne Enterprises I come up with new identities. Most I'll never use, but it's more interesting than the usual project management catch ups."

"And the glitter mask?"

Tim blinks. "I really thought you'd ask about the dress first," he says. "The mask was something I added when I was struggling to get anywhere with Larry. Adding a bit more of me in there, to see if it helped. Being a fan, being a hero geek, it added another layer, but I needed to do it in a Dominic way." Tim is still toying with the edge of his cape. "It gave him more depth, harked back to something younger, but corrupted it. Larry... there was this whole internalised homophobia element I left out of the report," and he's talking quickly now, "that was what Larry was looking for and I hadn't taken into account, so Dominic had this hang up about superheroes and trying to be too cool for them and posturing, and the subtext I gave it was that he wanted to go back to those more innocent times, and the others, the other kids from Gotham Prep that Larry was grooming, they thought it was the coolest thing, and it became A Thing, you know? Specifically a Dusk Thing, I guess. So it didn't seem a big deal to do it after the case was over, because it wasn't a Dominic thing like the dress was, but I wore the dress as well because I don't actually have much clubwear as Tim, you know?" And he must run out of air or something, because he finally stops talking, and after a beat he raises his head and catches Jason's eye.

"More of a sundress than a club dress," Jason says, holding Tim's gaze. "You wanted me to ask about the dress? I mean, you looked hot in it, so I figured that was why the dress."

Tim nods. "Yeah, the dress was hot."

"New rule," Jason says, because he's feeling reckless. "You can only work cases in my territory wearing a dress."

"Is that so? Maybe you can only work cases in my territory wearing a top hat, then." Tim grins at him.

"On top of the helmet?"

"Of course."

"Done."

"Done."

There's a burst of laughter from the opposite side of the street. They're both smiling. It's surprisingly easy.

"What were you doing in Ma Granita's earlier?" Jason asks.

Tim throws back his head and laughs, then, startling Jason. It's definitely a real laugh, and it's a sound Jason swears he hasn't heard before. He'd bet a lot of people haven't.

"Jon and Damian," Tim says, catching his breath. His eyes are sparkling. "Oh, god, Jason, it's the cutest thing. Like, so cute I can't even mock Damian for it."

Jason raises an eyebrow. "What, did they order a milkshake with two straws or something?"

"Nearly as cute, and I have to find a way to suggest that to Jon without him realising. No, Jon's, I don't know, stealth dating Damian."

"Stealth dating?"

"Damian doesn't know."

"Damian doesn't know what? That's Jon's dating him? That dating exists?" Jason can believe it.

"Bruce asked me to pick Damian up from school, because Alfred is busy, and Jon was there too. Flown over from Metropolis, I guess? They've been spending a lot of time together recently, just the two of them. Going to movies, getting coffee, stuff like that. Last weekend apparently they went to a fayre? Jon was telling me about how many prizes Damian won for him. And instead of going straight back to the manor after school Jon managed to persuade Damian to take him out for ice cream, which is why I ended up chaperoning them to Ma Granita's. Damian made me sit at another table, which is just Damian, I mean, that's not the cute part, but I was very clearly a third wheel. But on the way back Jon held Damian's hand crossing the road, and didn't let go until we got to the car. And then held his hand again in the back seat. Damian just glared at me in the rear view mirror the whole way home."

"How old is the super kid?"

"Twelve, I think? He's a more emotionally mature than Damian in a lot of ways, but also much more a kid." Tim kicks his legs against the side of the building, smiling to himself. "I think he's trying to acclimatise Damian to dating before actually asking him out. Damian is so obviously smitten, and has no idea what to do with that feeling, so Jon's taking the lead."

"And you get to chaperone them like a maiden aunt?"

Tim's smile drops a little at the corners. "Guess so."

"No boy or girl friend in sight? Poor Timbo, resigned to a lonely life of mad cat boy."

"Do I get a leather catsuit and a whip?" Tim grins at him, but there's something different about it. Maybe this is a weird conversation to initiate right now, Jason realises.

"You've already got my leather jacket," Jason reminds him, because his mouth is faster than his brain.

"Mmm." Tim is watching him now, looking for something. "I could bring it back tomorrow? Before patrol?"

"Sure," Jason says. He tries to think of a good place to hand it over that won't compromise either of them. Tim nods, and draws his cowl back up over his head. "How ab-"

And Tim's jumped off the roof.

Jason watches him swing away, over to Dusk and then down the alley at the side, and he's gone into the night.

Alright, fine. Tomorrow, before patrol, he'll get his jacket back. Let Tim decide where and when. Little stalker clearly wants to show off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stealth dating isn't a good thing, generally, but it's one of those areas that's creepy and irritating in real life (like, you think you're meeting a friend for coffee, but surprise! It's a date. Only is it? If you say you don't want a date, then it never was, and you're being presumptuous) but has the potential to be cute as a fictional thing. Romance and RomComs get a lot of flack of portraying problematic things in a fictionalised way, but I think it's worth noting people rarely level similar accusations at other genres - action movies don't realistically portray head injuries, thrillers get CPR wrong to a genuinely dangerous extent, and so on. But because Romance is coded female, there's a whole vibe of "but we have to call it out to keep the ladies safe" that's condescending and sexist in its own right. It's important not to let fiction normalise problematic behaviour, but it's also important to not scapegoat fiction for all society's ills.
> 
> (also, I couldn't find a stripping construction worker gif, not one I wanted to use, anyway, but hit me up if you've got one for babs to use here!)


	4. Tuesday Afternoon

When Damian ignores the door Tim reached over to open for him in favour of sliding into the back seat of the car, Tim knows he's trying to make him feel like the help on purpose. He shrugs, closes the passenger side door again, and puts the car into drive. There's no sign of Jon today, and Damian doesn't say anything, so Tim sets off. They reach the manor without having so much have said "hello" to each other, which is fine with Tim.

It's not that Tim doesn't want a better relationship with Damian. It's just, if he's completely honest with himself, he's not sure it's worth the work. It's never not going to feel like a competition, and it's one where the stakes are too high to consider forfeiting. Damian's clearly got no interest in putting the effort in, and Tim resents the idea that the whole burden should fall on his shoulders just because he's older. Damian's the one who keeps trying to kill him, but everyone's scared of Damian so they put it on Tim to keep the peace instead. Once upon a time he would have, just to make everyone else happy, but in the last couple of years that desperate need to please has sloughed off like old snake skin and left something a bit more raw in it's stead.

Alfred looks up as they walk through the door, and treats Tim to a small smile of approval when he sees they're both still in one piece.

Okay, so maybe he hasn't completely subsumed his need to please, but it's _Alfred_ , and his approval is more significant than Batman's.

He heads up to his room. It's clean and tidy, no Red Bull cans on the floor or half eaten take out on the desk. He rarely stays here any more, and it's sad that it's the lack of dust and dirty laundry that gives that fact away.

He sits on the bed. The manor is quiet around him. Damian is in the library doing his homework, Alfred is polishing the banisters, and Bruce is still at WE. The house is too big for their small family, and Tim feels it stretch out around him, as big and cold and empty as outer space. As the house he'd grown up in.

He wonders what Jason's place is like. He needs to drop that jacket back tonight. He knows the locations of at least three of Jason's safe houses - there's one more that might be Jason's, or might be Cass's, and he isn't going to invade anyone's privacy to find out just in case - and he probably isn't going to get the right one on the first try, which is why he ducked out of the conversation before they could set a time. Half of his reputation for detection is actually deflection, letting people think his good guesses are confident deductions. He'd have made a good stage show psychic.

He takes that thought and examines it. It's not the first time recently he's caught himself thinking about the life he might have had. He hadn't realised he was too close to the Larry case until he was caught in the undertow. The Waynes were all Gotham Academy men, but his father had gone to Gotham Prep and he probably would have gone there too. Everyone thinks he's just Bruce mark 2, but the similarities in his upbringing made him much more conscious of their differences. To Dick or Jason, GA and GP are basically the same, but to Tim it's as different as Gotham and Metropolis.

He finds himself moving without thinking, reaching under the bed for a shoebox that only he and Alfred know is there. He's tried all sorts of methods to secure its contents over the years, from thumb print scanners to taping a single hair over the opening. Alfred always finds ways to let Tim know when he's been through the box's contents, and Tim's okay with that.

He's added two more slim albums to the original pair since becoming Robin. There's only three photos of Steph as Robin - it was much harder to sneak out at night while his father was watching for it - but he's got a good collection of her as both Spoiler and Batgirl. It's probably his favourite album, because it's got such a clear narrative. Damian's album is short, too, but Tim has high hopes for it.

He takes Jason's album out and starts to flick through it. He doesn't know what he's looking for. He's halfway between distracting himself from tonight and preparing himself for it. There's a lot of Big Thoughts swirling just on the edge of his consciousness that he's really not keen to look at head on, but they're starting to crowd him. He's not sure how much longer he can put them off. He's not sure how much longer he wants to. There's something... there's something with Jason, a moment he's scared of missing, an opportunity that might pass him by, and it's terrifying and exciting. He thinks he knows how Pandora felt. There's a lot of demons in that box, but the urge to open it is getting stronger and stronger.

"It's imperative I speak with you."

It takes all of Tim's training to not jump. He turns another page in the photo album to give himself a moment to bring his heart rate back under control.

"Drake."

"I heard you the first time." He looks up then, face carefully schooled. He has no idea how Damian snuck up on him like that. The kid is quiet on his feet, but his door had been locked and there's no way Damian could have opened it that silently; the hinges squeak on purpose. But there Damian is, still in his school uniform, stood at the foot of the bed and staring like the creepy kid from the Omen and Tim just isn't going to give him the satisfaction.

"You were distracted," Damian sneers.

"I was ignoring you."

Damian is closer. Tim would swear he hadn't moved, but there he is, right in Tm's face.

"What are you looking at?"

Tim debates forcing Damian back to his original point, but it would only buy time; now Damian's seen the albums there's no way he's not going to investigate. Short of removing them from the mansion altogether - and he doesn't want to do that to Alfred - Tim won't be able to keep him out for long.

Tim sighs and spins the album in his lap, showing it to Damian.

"It's Jason," he says. He gestures to the other albums, still in the box. "There's an album for Dick, as well, and Steph."

Damian can see for himself there are four albums, but he doesn't say anything about Tim's obvious omission. Instead, he takes the book from Tim and holds it close to his face. Tim frowns; does his baby brother need glasses?

"These are prints," Damian says. He inhales through his nose, and Tim realises he's trying to identify the process by smell. They're too old for that. "Developed privately, not commercially. How did you get them?"

"I took them," Tim says.

"From where?"

"I mean I took the photos, myself."

"Tt." Damian throws the album onto the bed and takes Dick's from the box. He opens it to the first page, which shows a sixteen year old Dick mid somersault. He holds it up to Tim's face. "You expect me to believe you captured this?" he says, raising an eyebrow. "You would have been _ten_."

"I was nine, actually." Tim shuffled back on the bed, crossing his legs. He takes Dick's album back from Damian and flips through a couple pages to find what he's looking for. "This is the night I realised Dick was Robin," he says, tapping an image.

Damian sways with indecision for a moment, then hops onto the bed beside Tim. They're the same height now, but Tim's taller in the torso and Damian in the legs, so he still feels like the bigger brother when they sit next to each other.

"You were nine," Damian states flatly.

"He did the quadruple somersault. Only a small handful of people in this country can do that, and I knew one of them was Dick Grayson, former flying Grayson. The build was right, the colours made sense, and everything fell into place."

"You worked out father's identity at nine."

"There's a reason your grandfather calls me 'Detective'," Tim reminds him. He hands the album back to Damian. The younger boy rolls onto his stomach and lays the album on the bed, propping himself up on one elbow as he starts to work his methodical way through it.

"This one," Damian says, tapping a picture, "you would have had to be on top of City Hall."

Tim nods without even looking over. "I don't think there's a building in Gotham I haven't been on," he says. "Before I became Robin, I mean."

"Why did Father allow you to keep taking these images? You put everyone at risk of exposure."

"He didn't know."

"Tt!" Damian rolls onto his side and pokes Tim in the ribs. "You _can't_ expect me to believe that!"

Tim grins at him. "Ask him. He didn't know until I came to him, and told him what I knew, and demanded he make me Robin."

"You blackmailed him." Damian's eyes narrow. "He had no choice but to take your inferior self on."

"He was going to kill someone," Tim says simply. "Jason was dead, and he was changing. Someone had to step in, and it wasn't going to be the Justice League."

He doesn't want to keep having _this_ conversation with Damian. Damian doesn't need to know how dark things were then. He doesn't need to know how different Bruce had been before, with Dick and Jason. Tim halted Batman's descent into darkness, but he hadn't been strong enough to reverse it.

He finds the photo he's looking for in Jason's album and lays it on top of the one Damian is looking at. It's one of the biggest pictures in the album, and Tim is proud of it. The composition is perfect: Batman is lurking back right, a dark, brooding shape in the shadows. In foreground is Dick in full Discowing regalia, up lit by the streetlights nearby, in three quarters profile. They're fighting, and Dick is in the process of storming off, one arm thrown out behind him. Back left, leaning against a concrete pillar, is Jason, staring almost directly at the camera. Even under the domino mask, his expression is one hundred per cent "can you even believe this shit".

It is Tim's favourite photo.

Damian's breath catches in his throat.

"Is that-"

"Dick? Yes."

"But why?"

Tim laughs. "You can take the boy out of the circus..."

"But his _hair_!" Damian sits up, snatching the album off the bed and cradling it close, staring at his brother and hero. The gold on the suit sparkles in the light, the blue pops, and Dick's mullet is in the finest form Tim ever saw it.

"Do you want a copy?" Tim asks.

Damian nods, mutely.

Tim grins and flops back on the bed. Let this be his revenge for Dick taking Robin from him. 

"Are there any other copies?" Damian asks.

"Alfred has several," Tim says. "Just in case."

A small smile touches Damian's lips.

"I was never sure if Jason saw me," Tim says, reaching up to tap where he knows Jason stands. "There were a few times I thought he might be posing for me. Dick just... poses. I don't know if he even knows how to just stand like a normal person. With Jason I wasn't so sure." He shrugs, covers wrinkling beneath him. "He's never said anything."

"Hnn." It's a little sound of partial agreement, which is as close as Damian ever gets to admitting Tim might be right.

"The camera is too bulky to take when I'm in uniform, so I don't have as many of you. Mostly from my phone." Tim gestures to the other albums in the box.

He can tell Damian is unhappy at that, the idea that Tim has managed to get pictures of him as well without him noticing, but he can't bring it up without admitting his failure. Instead, he looks through the rest of Jason's album, turning the pages quickly. Tim's pretty certain he's just looking for more images of Discowing.

"These are... well composed," Damian says, surprising him. "You have good tools are your disposal."

"It's not the camera that composes them," Tim says. "But a good one does make a big difference, especially for night shots. Finding the balance between a long enough exposure to get the light and short enough to get the movement takes practice. The ones of Jason are better because he stood still, unlike Dick." And because he took more of them, went out more often, used more film, had more images to choose the best from. Honed his craft _for_ Jason.

"Do they know now, Dick and Jason?"

"Dick does. I think Jason does? We don't really talk outside of cases." 

It's true, even now, but Tim desperately doesn't want it to be.

This is the inspiration he was looking for when he got the albums out. The push off the ledge. The lift of the lid of Pandora's box.

He reminds himself that Damian's still there, still looking at him.

"What did you want to talk about, when you came in? What was so imperative?"

Damian lowers the album to the bed, something reluctant in his movements. They've been bonding. It's been nice. And now Tim wants to wrap it up so he can plan for this evening. Guilt flickers in his stomach. He could be a better brother than this, and maybe it wouldn't be as hard as he thought it would. 

"Jon," Damian says eventually. "His... behaviour, recently."

Tim pushes himself up to sitting. "What about it?" he keeps his voice soft. Has Damian actually come to him for advice?

"I am concerned that you may have misinterpreted it. That you might draw erroneous conclusions, and... share them."

Tim cocks his head to one side, trying to convey 'sympathetic listening' with his body language.

Damian huffs a sigh and looks away. "Tt. What have you said to Grayson?"

"Dick? I haven't spoken to him since, huh, a couple of weeks?"

Damian eyes him suspiciously.

"You are sure?"

"Yeah. I saw him once, just after I started working the Scarecrow case for Bruce, to hand over some of my ongoing cases to him since I realised I wasn't going to have much time to suit up, but not since. I should probably call him and let him know I'm done with that, actually." Usually he'd talk to Dick after a case like that, to wind down, but running into Jason at Dusk had thrown his usually routines off. "Why? What's he said?"

Damian shook his head. "It is none of your concern."

"He usually means well, when he starts meddling," Tim says. "He's just... he likes to feel involved?"

Damian considers this. "He's been following us," he says. It's not a fact, but a conclusion, and Tim's reaching the same one. Jason had seen them too, yesterday. God, how crowded were Gotham's rooftops? You'd think it was a one ice-cream-parlour town.

"You want me to distract him next time?" Tim asks.

This is clearly not an option that had occurred to Damian, and Tim is treated to the rare sight of his perfectly composed younger brother gaping at him.

Damian's mouth snaps shut, and he glares at Tim. "There is nothing to distract him from. As I said, you have drawn the wrong conclusions."

"What conclusions do you think I've drawn?"

"Tt. Jon is more physically affectionate than many members of our family. I... indulge him in it, when his behaviour has otherwise met with my approval. That is all."

"That's nice of you." Tim speaks with carefully measured blandness. "You don't have to if you don't want to, you know that, though?"

"Jon would never impose upon me," Damian says hotly.

"That's good. If you're both on the same page, then? That's good."

"Our relationship is superior to any of yours, Drake. Your jealousy has been noted."

It's so hard not to laugh at that. Tim tries to suppress it, but he's pretty certain Damian notices anyway. Damian scrambles off the bed, folding his arms tightly across his chest.

"Look, Damian, if you want me to get Dick off your back, just ask. And if you need a ride to anywhere - the movies, a nice restaurant for dinner, a party? - I'll be more discrete about it than Alfred or anyone else. If you need to talk-"

"I have no desire to talk to you, or hear your ridiculous opinions, or correct your foolish notions, or-" Damian is backing out of Tim's room at some speed now. "There is nothing to talk about!" he shouts as he exits, slamming the door in his own face.

Tim flops back onto the bed, and lets the laughter come.


	5. Tuesday Evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Underaged drinking in this one, and more Tim in a dress.
> 
> Also, spellcheck is acting like you don't have bolognese sauce in America, which is confusing me. I'm just going to assume you do, because I've definitely seen spag bol in sitcoms.

Jason's cooking dinner when there's a tap at his window. He's been half expecting this, and he's cooked extra bolognese, just in case. If Tim hadn't come, he'd have had leftovers tomorrow, so it's no skin off his nose, but he's still pleased with himself for guessing right.

What he hadn't guessed was what Tim would be wearing. Windows were for uniforms, right? Everyone knows that. But Tim's sat on the ledge outside, a grocery bag dangling from one arm, in his civvies.

Specifically, in his dress.

Jason lets him in.

"Could you take any longer?" Tim asks. "I've got ice cream here! Well, granita." He holds up the grocery bag.

"You have?"

"The way you were talking about Ma Granita's last night, I wasn't sure if you'd actually tried it. And I owe you, so..." Tim shrugs.

Jason takes the grocery bag from him. His jacket's in there, and a take out tub of lemon-mint granita, and a bottle of wine. His cigarettes are noticeably missing. Tim's also got a small backpack with him, that Jason figures probably contains his costume.

He waves Tim over to the small table at the side of the kitchen. The chairs don't match, and Tim takes the higher one, sitting sideways on it to watch Jason. Jason puts the granita in the ice box and opens the wine, putting it on the side to breathe (Alfred taught him well). He hangs the jacket on the back of the other chair. It's been cleaned, he notices. He stirs the sauce a couple of times, and measures out enough spaghetti for both of them and puts the water on to boil. And then he's run out of things to keep himself busy, so he accepts his fate and turns to look at Tim.

He's wearing the dress over what Jason suspects are his uniform tights, and under a black blazer that Jason's sure he's seem him wear with jeans before (his 'casual' version of Drake-Wayne, rather than actual casual clothes). He's got nail polish on, and possibly lip gloss, though his bottom lip keeps disappearing under his teeth. Nervous, then, or flavoured lip gloss. Jason wonders if he'll get to find out. Wonders if that's the point, or if it's something Tim's done for himself. Jason isn't entirely happy with the idea this might _all_ be for his benefit, not when Tim looks so pleased with himself. He deserves to feel pleased with himself more often, and if it's a dress that makes him happy, he should wear it for his own sake.

Aaaand he's been staring too long, hasn't he?

"Wine and everything," Jason says. "Almost like this is some kind of stealth date."

"Not stealthy enough," Tim says, "clearly."

He's not confirming or denying it. Alright, fine. Two can play at that game.

"Spaghetti bolognese okay?" Jason asks. "You've not gone veggie like the Demon Brat? No allergies?"

"It smells incredible," Tim says. "I wasn't expecting all this."

"But you brought wine and dessert, just in case?"

Tim shrugs. "Prepare for every eventuality," he says.

"So if I'd been cooking fish you'd have arranged it so that red wine was white?"

Tim nudges his backpack with his foot. Something inside it clanks against the floor.

Jason laughs, and Tim smiles at him. It's a good smile; he's stopped worrying at his lip now. 

"Go on, I'll stick it in the fridge," Jason says, holding a hand out. "I mean, we don't want to go on patrol half cut, but-" he shrugs. He's not really sure what he's suggesting. Coming back here after patrol? Getting drunk instead of going out at all?

Tim hands the second bottle over. Jason suspects both are from the manor's cellar, which means they'll be good. Rather better than his cooking deserves, probably, but he's not complaining.

He adds a dash of the red wine (it's a Rioja Reserva, he's checked; not a perfect match for Italian food but good and robust) to the bolognese sauce and fishes a strand of spaghetti from the pan with a fork. He flicks it at the kitchen tiles and it sticks. Perfect.

He doesn't have any matching crockery, but he's got a couple of dishes that are roughly the same size - one patterned with fish, the other a rich shade of dark blue, so it's almost like a set - and he does have two wine glasses. They're the sole survivors of a set of six, but Tim doesn't need to know that. He dishes out the pasta and sauce, and grates a bit of parmesan over the top. When he turns to the table, Tim's still staring at the spaghetti on the wall.

"When it's cooked, it sticks," Jason explains. "If it doesn't stick, it's not cooked."

A crease appears between Tim's brows as he considers this bit of culinary knowledge. "The starch," he says eventually. "Right?"

Jason shrugs. "I guess so?"

Tim pours the wine, and holds up his glass as Jason puts the plates down. They sit opposite each other. Jason raises his glass, and they chink them together, but neither makes a toast. Its just a moment of mutual appreciation.

The wine is nice. Dangerously nice. They're going to get through this bottle very quickly, Jason predicts.

Jason is pretty pleased with his work, and Tim makes appreciative noises as he eats. The kid could use feeding up, though he's built along slimmer lines than the rest of the bats anyway. 

"You cooked all this from scratch?" Tim asks.

Jason nods. "It's not hard," he says.

Tim raises an eyebrow sceptically."You say that, but let's be honest, it's basically magic."

"Any sufficiently advanced science is indistinguishable from magic," Jason says. "Including culinary science."

"Technology," Tim says. "Any sufficiently advice technology. Arthur C Clarke."

"Sci fi Nerd."

"Lit geek." Tim grins at him. "But also, yes, cooking is magic. Come on, you're putting a bunch of things in a pot, often things that are completely inedible to start with, or on their own, and then-" he waves at his half empty plate "-magic!"

Jason smirks at him. "You really don't cook, do you?" he says. "'A bunch of things'. I mean, no wonder you think it's magic."

Tim gestures again, about to expand on his point, but he's got a loaded fork in his hand. Jason watches, almost in slow motion, as the spaghetti unravels and flicks a large blob of tomato sauce directly into the centre of Tim's white dress. Tim's mouth drops open in a moue of disappointment.

"This is why you're not supposed to have spaghetti on a first date," Jason says. "Too messy."

Tim flushes scarlet. "I'll, uh."

"Bathroom is just off the lounge," Jason gestures with his wine glass. "Stain remover is under the sink."

Tim nods. He doesn't quite bolt, but he's not taking his time about getting away from Jason. That'll teach him for speaking without thinking.

Jason eyes his mostly empty wine glass, drains it, and tops them both up. It really is a very nice wine.

#

Tim dabs at the red stain with a damp corner of a hand towel. His face is blotchy in the mirror, his blush refusing to go down. The wine hasn't helped with that. This wasn't meant to be a _date_. Dating was what Jon and Damian were doing, in their own awkward way, spending time together in public in specifically socially prescribed scenarios. And okay, sure, a home cooked meal was a pretty classic scenario, but this was meant to be different. They were both adults.

Tim sighs. The sauce isn't going to come out until he can wash it properly at home, and now the front of the dress is basically see-through with water.

Maybe he should just take it off and swan back out there topless. That might get him what he wants.

Is it what he wants?

Oh god, he hates this uncertainty. He's trying to wrap his head around everything all at once, and it's too much. After Damian left his room he'd mindmapped it all, trying to tease out his goals, and he'd drawn a bunch of contradictory conclusions.

_\- I find Jason attractive._

_\- I find other men attractive, as well._

_\- Both genders find me attractive, which is something I can use to my advantage when working on a case. Something I have used._

(he likes being found attractive, likes the attention. He needs to wean himself off that before it gets too tempting, though. Good Robins don't try and draw any more attention than is necessary for the mission)

_\- I enjoy wearing some feminine items of apparel._

_\- I don't want to be female. Caroline Hill is a useful identity to put on sometimes, but I feel a bit dysphoric if I have to wear her for too long._

(he'd circled that one, surprised at the certainty behind it, and added a side note _\- sometimes I feel a bit dysphoric when I wear Timothy Drake-Wayne for too long_ , but scribbled it out again. It wasn't a thought he was comfortable having stare back at him)

_\- Being able to adapt my gender and sexual identity for cases is an advantage_

_\- being a virgin is a disadvantage_

(he'd written under that _\- for a certain concept of virgin_ and under that _\- for a certain concept of me_ and stared at the two statements for a long time before crossing them out. This was his own mindmap, he didn't need to add qualifiers.)

_\- Jason finds me attractive._

_\- Jason finds me attractive in feminine apparel._

_\- I could have sex with Jason_

_\- Having sex with Jason will give me an advantage next time I need to have sex to maintain an undercover identity._

It had all made perfect sense, written out like that. He wishes he still had the paper to reassure himself, but he'd burnt it for security reasons. Somehow, here, with spaghetti sauce on the front of his dress and a red wine flush along the top of his cheeks and condoms crinkling in his back pocket, it doesn't make quite as much sense.

This is supposed to be a hook up, not a first date. Dates are different. He's different, if it's a date. First dates imply future dates. If he jumps into Jason's bed now, will there be future dates? Will they have to have sex every time? Does he want to do that? What if it's a choice: sex now or future dates and sex later? Which is he supposed to want?

Tim swallows. No, he made a plan. As long as Jason is willing, they're going to hook up tonight, and Tim can add "sex" to his list of skills. This is just simpler and easier and better for the mission. Relationships are hard and messy and make you want to compromise (or take control, and Steph will never not remind him what a shitty boyfriend he was to her in that respect, and he knows it's something he needs to hear more often than not) and he needs to be focused on making Gotham a better place.

Maybe he should take off the dress?

No, that's probably too much for now. Plus, Jason's apartment is draughty. Shivering is not sexy. He'll just have to live with the stain.

#

Tim is quieter. Not completely quiet; he's holding up his end of the conversation perfectly well, but he's not initiating any more. He's staring at Jason as he eats, making a lot of eye contact. Their knees keep bumping together under the table.

Jason knows when he's being seduced, and it's having completely the opposite effect. Every time Jason doesn't play along there's this calculating look in Tim's eyes - no, a recalculating look - and the younger man tries another tactic. It's starting to get tiring, but Jason isn't sure if he should call him out. After all, Jason's the one who called this a date, and freaked Tim out, so maybe he just has to accept the sudden awkwardness.

They've finished the pasta and Tim's poured both of them another glass of wine, the last of the bottle. 

"Shall we go over to the sofa?" Tim asks.

Jason doesn't want to. He's fucked up, and Tim is trying so hard to recapture the earlier rapport, but Jason just feels shitty about it now. There's still the tub of granita in the ice box for dessert, and the other bottle of wine, but what Jason really wants is to go out and punch criminals until he stops feeling like a fuck up.

He doesn't say any of this, though, and follows Tim through to the den. The sofa is a two seater, and he takes up most of it, so it's not that weird that Tim is pressed against his side.

They sit in silence, drinking the wine. Tim has stopped trying so hard, which is a relief, but Jason isn't putting the effort in either and they've run out of things to say.

Tim puts his glass down, empty. Jason blinks; the kid must have downed it. Tim turns to him, wine staining the cracks in his lips.

"I think we should have sex," Tim says.

A mouthful of very expensive Rioja sprays across Jason's beige carpet.

Tim eyes the stain. "I didn't mean to shock you," he says. "Sorry, I thought it was clear that this was where this is going."

"Fucking hell, Replacement. You don't mince your words, do you?"

"I thought it was better to make sure we're on the same page."

"We're not."

Tim isn't expecting that. He drops back, away from Jason, presses against the arm of the sofa and stares at him unhappily.

"We aren't?"

"This isn't... I mean... It's not that you're not-" Jason stops himself, sighs, and tries to compose his thoughts. "When I was taking about spaghetti, I didn't mean to make things weird. That's not where I thought this evening was going."

"Oh."

Jason swallows. "I mean, we're not on the same page, but I guess we're in the same book? But I wasn't planning to just plow you on the kitchen table, and I'm sorry if I gave you that impression." Because, oh god, the Replacement is still sat there with his red wine lips and big eyes and cute dress and Jason can absolutely see himself plowing Tim on the kitchen table, and against any other flat surface that comes to hand. Is he making a mistake here? Turning down his one opportunity to blow Tim's mind? "I mean, if that's _all_ you want..."

Tim's staring at him.

"I just thought you were going to return my jacket," Jason says, even though that's a lie, he made two portions of spaghetti and he kept the sauce simmering in the hope Tim would come by while it was still good.

"You should have said," Tim says, in a very small voice.

"We can have sex, if that's what you want," Jason says. "I'm not averse to the idea."

"Same book," Tim repeats.

"Yeah, that. I can find the page."

"Okay."

But neither of them move.

Outside, a siren wails. They're part of the background music of Gotham, harmonising with the percussion of bullets and bass of back firing cars. They sit in silence, waiting for the siren to reach its crescendo and then ease past, dopplering back into the usual hum, but it just keeps getting louder.

Fuck.

"Is that?" Tim frowns.

"Suit up," Jason says. "That's next door."

The relief in the air is palpable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am half tempted to try and draw Tim's mindmap, but if anyone else wants to, go ahead!


	6. Wednesday Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so trigger warning, Tim brings up part of why this fic is tagged DubCon. I'm not sure how much I'm going to dwell on what happened (Jason probably will). I think a future chapter will probably explore exactly what happened, but it is in the past and I'm not going to go into explicit detail. However, at some point Tim is going to have to deal with the fact that compartmentalising his life to the extent he doesn't think of it as something that happened to him, something that he did, is super unhealthy.
> 
> For those who need more information to make a choice about reading on, spoilers below:
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> _Tim had oral sex with another guy while undercover. Tim didn't feel like he could say no, because it would have been dangerous to himself and other to break cover, and the other guy couldn't give informed consent because he didn't know Tim was lying about his identity. Tim has mostly been dealing with this by ignoring it, telling himself it's a Dominic thing, and generally compartmentalising it, but it's what's driving his behaviour towards Jason_
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Blood is running freely across the asphalt towards a drain. Jason blinks down at it. With Red Robin at his side, he's been trying to keep himself in check. Most of the guys he's taken down have broken bones and concussions, and sure, he might have split a bit of skin but there shouldn't be that much blood. He hasn't shot anyone.

"Fuck."

A body falls from the fire escape above him, right into the blood. A bowie knife clatters to the ground next to it. Jason waits until he hears a groan, then ignores it. Alive, not a threat. The trail of blood leads back to the fire escape, and Jason follows it up one flight to where Red Robin is leaning heavily against the railing, another gang member pressed against him. Red grunts, and the guy tips over him and onto the ground below to join his friend. Jason kicks the bowie knife away and zip ties the two guys together, ready for the police to pick them up.

Blood is still trickling down the fire escape.

Jason's tall enough that it doesn't matter the ladder is still up. He reaches up and grabs the bottom of the platform and hauls himself up. The metal grate under his feet is tacky, sticking to his boots.

Red Robin is still leaning on the railing, and though it doesn't look like all the blood up here is his, all the fresh stuff is.

Red licks his lips, opens his mouth to say something, and pitches forward as his knees give way. Jason catches him.

He swings Tim up into his arms and starts climbing the fire escape. Tim's so small and light in his arms he feels like King Kong as he scales the building. He wants to get away from the fight, to get somewhere with more light than the gloomy alley. Panic is rising in his chest. He remembers Tim's blood, remembers making it pour out of him like this, leaving him a message in it. If Tim dies ten feet from Jason's apartment, he might as well have died in Titans Tower.

He gets to the roof and lays Tim out on the concrete. There's a gash in his side ten inches long and more than an inch deep in places. His chest armour was designed to defend against percussive blows, not knives. It's an ongoing issue; material that can stop a slice can't stop a stab, that can stop a stab can't stop a bullet, and that can stop a bullet can't stop a slice. You can layer up, but then you lose flexibility, and Tim's like Dickie there: he likes to be able to move.

Jason wads up Tim's cloak and presses it against the wound. Blood makes it slippery. He needs stitches and a transfusion. They're too far from Leslie's clinic, and way too far from the mansion. Should he risk the hospital?

Tim groans.

"It's okay," Jason says. "It's gonna be okay." He taps a spot on the side of his helmet. "O, Red Robin is down. Where can I take him?" He tries to keep pressure on the wound, lifts Tim's arm and uses that to help hold the cloak in place. Tim seems to understand what he's doing, tries to clamp his arm against his side, and Jason is so grateful he's still conscious. "O, come on!"

//Loading the vitals from his suit// O replies. //N has a place nearby with what you need. I'll get him to meet you on route. Coordinates incoming.//

So Dick has a safehouse in Jason's territory, and any other time Jason would be furious, but right now he's just relieved because Tim might survive the night if he moves quickly.

"I've got you, Tim. Hold on, baby bird. Hold on for me, okay?" Jason gathers Tim up in his arms, keeping his wound against Jason's chest, the cloak pinned between them. Tim presses his face into Jason's shoulder and hisses as his wound is jostled. "I need you to hold on so I can swing, okay? Hold on tight for me." Jason presses a kiss to the top of Tim's head. It's not far to Dick's place, a couple of blocks, but it's going to be hard going holding another adult man. He really needs Tim to stay conscious here. "Talk to me, baby bird."

"Ugh," Tim manages.

"Tell me what you wanted to do to me," Jason says. "Tell me what your plans for this evening were."

Tim snorts. "You... you trying to divert... blood away... from the wound?" His breath is coming in short gasps and he sounds exhausted, but he's trying his best for Jason, and Jason squeezes him tighter against his chest as they take the first jump from roof to roof. The landing is hard, and Tim moans at the jolt.

"Yeah, baby, keep moaning for me like that," Jason says, because apparently he has the worst bedside manner ever.

"I wanted... you... to fuck me," Tim says into Jason's shoulder. "You... 'ld moan... for me.... in me."

This was a terrible, terrible idea, but at least Tim is still awake.

"Last case... I had... I blew a.. guy... and... I was bad." Jason makes another jump, and tries to land more gently, but it's hard. "Nearly... blew... my cover."

"Puns? You're bleeding out and now is the time for word play?"

Tim moans again, and pants against Jason's shoulder. His arm has gone limp and his cloak is slipping away from the wound despite Jason's best efforts.

"Stay with me, baby bird," Jason mutters. "Tell me more about the bad blow job."

"Choked..." Tim wheezes and his breath starts to stutter in his throat. They're still two buildings away from Nightwing's place, but Jason has to stop because Tim is twitching in his arms. He tilts Tim away from his shoulder and yanks the cowl back. Tim's eyes have rolled back into his skull and his lips are blue.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck-"

"Hood!"

He's never been so grateful to see Nightwing in his life.

"What have you-"

"Help," Jason says, because fear is making him honest. "Dick, help."

They move fast, Dick leading the way, showing Jason the best spots for a clean landing, and they enter the safehouse via a balcony window that doesn't require Jason to put Tim down. The kitchen table is an old butcher's block, six foot long and bare waxes wood. Dick dives past him, into another room, while Jason lays Tim down and starts peeling off his uniform.

The wound is still bleeding, but sluggishly. Tim's pulse is thready and his fingers are white-blue. His breath is coming in shallow gasps and his skin is cold. Jason isn't sure what to do. He needs Dick, feels it like a wound in his own flesh. He needs his big brother to make this okay.

Dick's back, still moving fast, hooking Tim up to a blood bag that he hangs from one of the light fittings for lack of anywhere else to put it. He pulls Tim onto his side and puts Jason's hands on Tim's shoulder and hip to hold him in place. Jason's grateful for the direction and holds on tight.

Dick cleans the wound and stitches Tim up quickly and efficiently. When he's done he changes the blood bag. He's working around Jason, letting Jason just focus on the feel of Tim's skin under his hands. He's still cold, but he's breathing more easily and his pulse is getting stronger. His fingers are starting to return to normal.

Dick picks up one of Tim's hands and frowns at the nail polish. Jason glares at him, daring him to say something.

"He's going to be okay," Dick says. "That was close, though." He's staring at Tim's lips, now. "Is that... Do you know if he was drinking, before patrol?"

Tim's lips are returning to their usual pink, but the red wine stains still stand out. No time to brush teeth before rushing out to save the day. He wonders if the gangsters noticed, or whether you have to be trained by the world's greatest detective.

Dick's looking at him now, and Jason realises his own mouth is probably stained, too.

Dick purses his lips. "Something you want to tell me?"

Jason consider the question, and leaps out of the kitchen window.

#

There's sunlight streaming through an unfamiliar window at an unfamiliar angle. Tim's mouth tastes like something died in it, his bladder is like a concrete weight in his belly, and his side is on fire.

Cassandra moves into his field of vision. She helps him prop himself up on some cushions, gestures to a glass of ice water on the bedside table, and hands him a bedpan before disappearing.

He loves Cass. She is his very favourite sibling. He may not know where he is or what happened last night, but he knows Cass is possibly the best person in the world.

She returns five minutes later with a syringe of something she adds to his IV line that turns the burning pain in his side to a more mellow warmth after a few minutes. Morphine, if he had to guess. It must be bad if they're giving him opiates; Batman is always careful with addictive substances.

He reaches for the glass of water, but he can't lift his arm all the way without the pulling down his side spiking through the haze. Cass hands it to him instead. He takes careful sips. Morphine makes him nauseous, and throwing up isn't going to help with whatever injury he's caused himself.

He hands the glass back to Cass. She hops onto the bed next to him, on his good side, and tucks her feet under the covers.

"Nightwing's," she says, gesturing at the room. "Hood brought you last night. Very bad cut."

It's coming back to him now. Possibly the most mortifying night of his life. Trying to seduce Jason, running out of there half cocked because they'd heard sirens, being caught unawares by a two bit thug with a knife he could barely hold.

"Where's Hood?"

Cass shrugs. "Gone. Nightwing was angry. You needed watching, and he needed to patrol."

"He called you?"

Cass nods after a second.

"He didn't call you first, did he?"

She shakes her head.

Tim opens his mouth to ask, but thinks better of it. It's not going to help him to know who else turned Nightwing down.

Cass holds out a remote. "Netflix?"

Tim lets his head fall back onto the pillow Cass placed behind it. "Yeah, okay. Have you been watching the new Queer Eye?"

"First season with Steph. Not new season."

"Perfect."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not know enough first aid for "stopping someone from bleeding to death".


	7. Thursday

Tim wishes Cass would come back. He wishes Dick didn't think he needs a babysitter. He wishes he was still unconscious.

Damian crosses his legs at the ankle and stretches out along Tim's good side. He's still in his school uniform. He's got his sketchpad on his lap, and there's a food documentary playing on Netflix.

He taps his pencil against the paper.

"Drake. You are awake."

Tim nods. He starts to push himself up the cushions, but it hurts to much and he slumps back.

"Tt." Damian leans over him and presses a button on his IV.

More morphine. Tim could get used to this.

After a few minutes he's able to sit up properly, though he's not sure why he's bothering.

"Grayson has made it clear I am not to allow you to attempt anything strenuous, like leaving. He apparently wants his hospitality abused."

"Do you have actual food?" Tim asks. "Something that doesn't come in a cardboard box with a cartoon character on the front?"

Damian hands him an energy bar from his school bag. The day before yesterday Tim was eating home made spaghetti in Jason's kitchen. Made from scratch, made with skill. Not just calories in a compressed form.

"Stop pouting at it Drake, or I'll take it away."

"We eat trash," Tim says sadly. "Functional trash."

Damian gives him a considering look.

"Drake," he says, "what is your opinion on Pennyworth's waffles?"

"Paste," Tim says promptly. "How are his pancakes so good, and his waffles so bad? Do they not have waffles in England?"

"I see."

"Where is my tablet?" Tim is bored. He has case work he could be dealing with. Oh, and candy crush! He has candy crush.

"You may have your tablet if you answer some more questions," Damian says.

"I want my tablet."

"What did you tell Grayson about myself and Kent?"

"Nothing." Tim glares at Damian. "I _promised_."

"You're quite sure of that."

"I promised." He's hurt that Damian doesn't trust him. This isn't like pushing each other off buildings. This is personal. Damian is his baby brother. If he wants to keep secrets from Dick, Tim will help him.

He reaches out and takes Damian's face gently in both hands. Damian freezes.

"I promised," Tim says. "I promised I wouldn't say anything to Dick, and I haven't." He squishes Damian's face a little. Most of his babyfat is gone now, and his Al Ghul cheekbones are beginning to assert themselves above his Wayne jawline. "I may have said something to Jason, though."

Damian jerks his head out of Tim's grip. "What," he growls, "did you say to Todd?"

"He had a bug in Ma Granita's. He had a bug there, but he's never had the granita. How do you place a bug there and not buy anything? It's so rude."

"And what you said to him was..."

"I told him what happened. So cute. You are so cute, Damian!"

"I hate you, Drake."

"No you don't, you're here to look after me. Dick asked and you came." Tim is pleased with this revelation.

"It gave me an opportunity to interrogate you while you are under the influence," Damian says.

"Nooo-oooo. You're here to look after meeeee."

"This was a mistake."

Damian thrusts Tim's tablet into his hands.

Tim relaxes back against the pillows. Sure, he's a little loopy on the morphine, but he's not that far gone. Damian is so easy to wind up.

"Why are you smiling?" Damian asks suspiciously.

"Morphine," Tim says.

"Tt."

He has a notification that his Amazon parcel is due for delivery, which is annoying because he's doubts Dick will let him home in time to receive it. He clicks through to Amazon without really thinking, and is prompted to buy half a dozen other things he only sort of needs. He could always use more USB cables. And if he's going to be benched for a while, adding a few more things to his Prime Watchlist isn't a bad idea. He'll need more medical supplies too, and he throws in some children's band aids (Superman and Wonder Woman) to throw the algorithm off. And hey, Batman socks! He needs Batman socks. And some leather boots to wear over them. And some cheap skinny jeans for when his usual brands would stand out too much. And a heather grey dress, three quarter length sleeves, with pockets on the front is to cute to say no to. It would look amazing under that black blazer. 

"Fuck," he says under his breath.

"Drake?"

"I left my blazer at Jason's," he says.

Damian blinks at him.

"Under the circumstances, I can hardly just go and ask for it back," Tim says.

"Under what circumstances?"

Tim opens his mouth, and closes it again. Damian nearly had him there. "Nu-uh," he says. "Maybe I don't trust _you_ not to tell Dick."

"I don't even know what you're referring to," Damian says. "You're infuriating." He cranes his neck to look at Tim's shopping basket. "Batman socks?"

"You think I should look for Robin socks?"

"I think you should turn off one-click ordering while you are on heavy pain medication."

Tim shrugs. "I can afford it." He one clicks some hair ties just to prove his point, and is rewarded with a recommendation for a Batgirl barrette. He buys that too. Steph will like it.

Damian reaches over and taps through Tim's settings. "You will thank me later," Damian says. He's going to make some speech about how superior he is Tim can't be bothered to listen to when he gets distracted. "What is on your hands, Drake?"

Tim's forgotten about the nail polish. It's pretty badly chipped now, which is a shame. He scratches at his ring finger with his thumb, scattering micah flakes all over the bed.

"Drake?"

"Polish." He moves on to his pinkie. "I was painting them for a case, and I guess I just liked it. Bart paints Iris's nails for her. He's really good at doing these intricate little designs; you wouldn't think, if you only knew him casually, but it makes sense if you actually _know him_ know him, you know?" He's aware he's managed to give that sentence the same cadence as _like_ like him, but he doesn't think Damian will get it. "The advantage of having best friends who were raised in tubes is they don't carry all the societal baggage around gender and sexuality a lot of people do. Bart likes having pretty nails, so he has pretty nails. It doesn't say anything about him as a person."

"What are the advantages to painting your nails, though?" Damian asks. 

"Pretty," Tim says. "Don't over think it." 

"But there _are_ societal expectation. You are not the clone or speedster, but you are choosing to buck those expectations." 

"There's also societal expectations that it's the police who'll stop crime." 

"Tt." 

Tim gives Damian a sideways look. "Want me to paint your nails?" he asks. 

_"No."_

"I could ask Bart to come by. He's really good at the Robin R. And the S shield." 

Damian glares at him and Tim giggles. 

"Nail varnish is against the uniform code at school," Damian informs him frostily. 

"And you've never broken any school rules at all, have you, Damian?" Tim scratches another nail mostly clean. There's scraps of polish still stuck in the ridges and he should probably take better care of his hands. The vigilante life is much harder on them than Wayne Enterprises, and he risks awkward questions when he comes in with scraped knuckles and blood ingrained in the whorls of his fingerprints. 

Could he make time for a manicure? As Tim Drake? It's a weird thought, but it actually seems plausible. It's more and more common for businessmen to take care of themselves. He probably couldn't justify a gel finish (he wants red, he wants a bright deep scarlet that flashes and catches the eye and he wants it more than he ever expected) but he could get them cleaned and buffed and generally tidied up a bit. 

He swallows. The ghost of red nail varnish hovers over his hands. His mother had said only tramps wore red, but she also said only women wore varnish, so maybe that doesn't matter so much. 

His side is starting to hurt again. The morphine is wearing off. 

"Drake?" 

"How long until I can have more morphine?" he asks. 

"Another hour, at least." 

"Oh." 

"If... If you'd like, for a distraction, I could revarnish your nails?" There's real concern in Damian's eyes, and Tim wonders how sorry for himself he must look if even Damian is falling for it. He's tired and sore and confused, and he doesn't know if he'd feel more himself with varnish or without and it's scary to contemplate how much of a stranger he is to himself these days. No wonder he's making stupid mistakes in the field. Mistakes that could cost him his life. 

"Yeah," he says. "That might be fun. I don't imagine Dick has any nail varnish, though." 

Damian hops off the bed. "I will investigate." 

# 

Dick comes home to change before patrol, and he's met by a strong smell of acetone. Following it, he finds his younger brothers in silent concentration. The bed is strewn with acetone-soaked tissues and cotton swabs from his first aid kit. There's nail varnish spilt over the quilt, and every toothpick and skewer from his kitchen has been utilised. 

Tim's nails are cherry red, black Rs on his pinkies. Damian's are dark blue with a black cityscape silhouetted on them, lights picked out with yellow dots, and the batsignal on one thumb. They're both a little shy in showing off their work to Dick, but soon Damian is extolling his skills, making a trip to the local drug store sound like an epic quest against a imbecilic foe and describing a youtube video in a second-by-second rundown, and Tim is dozing against Dick's side as another dose of morphine kicks in. 

Dick has never been happier

.


	8. Friday Evening / Saturday Morning

Jason is crouched on the roof of a warehouse in The Hill. His knees ache and the rain is dripping down the back of his neck. The jacket Tim returned is still at home. He hasn't managed to bring himself to wear it yet.

He assumes Tim is okay. Someone would have told him so otherwise. He's not at complete odds with the family any more.

Only, the family's definition of "okay" isn't, not really. 

Not for a kid who apparently had sex to keep a secret identity intact. Who wanted to lose his virginity - which, frankly, he'd already lost, but Jason wasn't going to stick around to argue the point with him - so he'd do better undercover in future. Because wasn't that a kick in the teeth? Jason was just a conveniently warm body, apparently.

The whole thing is like a wasps' nest in a bathroom. If Jason wants relief he's got to poke it, but he knows there's nothing but evil bees inside.

This, though, this is simple. Heroin, Dock A, warehouse 34, Casa Nostra rubbing their hands in anticipation. All he's got to do is sit here and wait for the opportune moment, then blow it all to hell.

//It's a trap.//

"O?"

//RR. Do not engage. It's a trap.//

And then, almost as if he's worried Jason might doubt his identity, Tim follows it up with a Star Wars gif.

Jason sighs.

"How do you know?"

//Word from N. Jack is trying to root out a mole. He's dropped different hints to different people, waiting to see which one the police turn up at.//

Jason growls. "And what was N doing on my turf?"

//I want to say stalking Little D, but I think he's following this up with some contacts in the police. They're at Dock D.//

Jason takes one more look at the warehouse, but decides to risk it, and starts making his way over to D.

"N was at Ma Granita's too?"

//Apparently it's the place to be. Did you try the lemon mint?//

What the fuck is this? Is Tim flirting? Is he just being friendly? What the fuck does he want from Jason?

"Not yet," Jason admits.

The bottle of white wine is still taking up space in the fridge, too, but he's not going to bring that up. Nearly killed his Replacement with the red. It's just too much.

Just back from the docks, there's a bunch of unmarked police cars and a van that Jason's willing to bet has a team putting on body armour inside. Jason crouches on an overlooking roof. He slips his helmet off and lights a cigarette.

"They'll kill you, so I'm told."

Dick's sense of humour is normally lighter than this. He's pissed at Jason for running out on him the other night. Jason flips him off, so he knows the feeling is mutual.

Dick drops into a crouch next to him. Jason blows smoke out of the side of his mouth, towards Dick, but the wind takes the plume and blows it out towards the docks.

"Little Red is going to be okay," Dick says.

"You've got him playing Oracle Junior," Jason says.

"It's the only way I could keep him benched. Did O tell you?"

Jason wishes he was still wearing his helmet; he knows his face betrays his surprise at that.

"He's patched into your comm? Or are those just the kind of terms you're on now? Glass of wine, patrol together, flirty little text messages?"

Dick's too close to right for Jason's liking. He wonders what Tim has said to him. Wants to ask. Knows better than to.

He needs a distraction. "I hear you've been hanging around Ma Granita's," he says. "Spying on the babiest bat and his boy toy."

Dick shakes his head. "I wasn't spying. Inzerillo realised he had a informer in the organisation, and apparently though Game of Thrones was an instructional video on how to root one out. I've been watching several businesses." Dick still has more contacts with Gotham's actual law enforcement than the rest of them, unless you count Bat's relationship with Gordon, and sometimes they reach out to Nightwing.

"What do you think of the super kid?"

"He's sweet. A good influence on Damian."

"He's smitten."

"They're too young for that."

Jason laughs. "How quickly we forget. They're plenty old enough. You should ask Red about it."

"He's keeping schtum." Dick shoots him a sideways glance. "You really think something's going on? Do I need to give Superman's kid the shovel talk?"

Jason wants to say yes, and ask Tim to get it on camera, but Dick is disarmingly sincere. Everyone's big brother, Dick Grayson.

"I hear it's all disgustingly wholesome," Jason tells him. "Age appropriate physical contact, chaperoned dates to public places, doing homework together. Exactly what you'd expect from a Super."

Dick considers this. He opens his mouth to say something else, but below them the van doors open and the police are on the move.

"What's the situation at the warehouse?"

"It _was_ rigged to blow. Now it's just chock full of evidence."

Well, that's a little anticlimactic. Jason could really use someone to hit right now.

Dick's giving him that sideways look again.

"The Aparo Park end of the docks, that was the third location," he says. "It's lacking in fireworks, but I'm pretty certain some of Inzerillo's guys are hanging around, just in case their own mole in the police was getting played."

"Everyone's got a fucking mole these days," Jason grumbles. He stubs his cigarette out on the edge of the roof - it's barely half smoked, and he considers hanging on to it, but that kind of penny pinching marks him as having grown up poor, and that's more than he wants to wear on the surface - and pulls his helmet back on.

//I promised Robin I wouldn't say anything// scrolls across his field of vision.

"Yeah, but I didn't," Jason tells the text.

"Huh?"

"Let's go," Jason says, standing up. "My trigger finger's getting itchy."

Dick shoots him a disapproving frown, but stands up as well.

#

It's five am, Jason's starving and singed and soaked in dock water (gee, thanks, Dick, it wasn't like he didn't know how to drop and roll or anything), he's really regretting not saving the rest of that cigarette now the rest of the pack is wet through, and Tim's stopped talking to him. Jason isn't sure if he's mad about the Damian thing, or mad about Jason accidentally-on-purpose getting himself set on fire as a distraction, or if he's fallen asleep, or if his helmet's comms shorted out when Dick threw him into the water. It's been distracting him all the way home, and what's worse is he hasn't had the nerve to ask him. This is what happens when he spends time with the family. It gets him on edge, confuses him, makes him do stupid things. He's already burned for this family once, and look where that got him?

Oh god, he smells _so_ bad.

He yanks the door of the icebox open and snatches out the granita. He's done thinking about Tim. He's done worrying about it. He's done feeling like _this_. He's going to eat the granita, drink the wine, and move house. Draw a line under the whole Tim debacle.

The granita is good. It's fresh and sharp and tastes like all the daylight Jason almost never sees these days. It clears the smell of smoke from his nostrils and replaces it with something that reminds Jason of summer, of lemonade in the yard at the mansion, helping Alfred pick herbs for dinner. Why the fuck do gangsters get all the best take out places? There's no way he can go there now without running into half the family, it seems like, but he's almost willing to risk it.

He pours himself a glass of wine - it's a sweet-sharp Chenin Blanc, goes perfectly with the lemon. He props his feet up on the coffee table and balances the ice cream tub on his knees. There's a copy of Venetia over the arm of the chair that he stalled on a few weeks ago. He's usually got half a dozen books on the go, but he'd got distracted by The Power, and then there was a new Castle novel (so sue him, he likes a police procedural, even though- _especially because_ he can use what he picks up to wind up Dick) and he had to catch up on the River of London comics, and, well... Heyer is someone he saves for when he's benched, normally, when he's a bit muzzy on painkillers and wants something that won't trigger any bad memories. She invented the Regency romance genre, she's Austen's heir apparent, and getting lost in a world where the only sharp edges are on the rapier wit is what he needs when he doesn't trust himself to be the keeper of his own mind.

He thumbs through the pages and puts it back down again. A romance novel isn't right. Not one where he can cast himself as the sexy rake, where Tim is the too-clever-for-her-own-good heiress, and it all works out in the end. He's already eating ice cream (granita) and drinking white wine. If he owned a bath he'd probably be lying in it (except, baths give him pit flashbacks, so he wouldn't). Light some candles (why would he waste them?).

It's a picture of indulgence that's wholly foreign to him. To his whole concept of himself. He doesn't deserve anyone lavishing that kind of care and attention on him, especially not himself. If he dwells on the image he can magnify it, blow each element up and out of proportion into a monstrous thing. Bath like the pit. Candle flames like the flicker of fuses. Wine from cellars he used to shortcut through on the way to the batcave in Dickie's spanky pants knock off. Lemon and mint from a garden he doesn't dare set foot in. Romance like being propositioned so coldly, so seriously, on his own sofa by a boy he tried to murder.

He abandons the glass and starts drinking straight from the bottle. It's an improvement. He shovels the last of the granita into his mouth, swallowing it without tasting it and powering through the brain freeze. He feels a bit sick by the time the tub is empty, but it's over and done with now. Eat the granita. Drink the wine. Move house. Need a new helmet, too, one Tim hasn't hacked.

Grainita, check. Wine, almost check. Move, tomorrow. Hood, tomorrow. Start over.

Maybe he should call Roy and Kori, see if they've got any work that'll get him out of town for a while. Let Dick take care of Inzerillo and the rest of them for a bit. Make him appreciate the work Jason puts in. It's not all ice cream parlours and gay clubs.

He forces himself up off the sofa and stumbles towards the bedroom. He's not sure if it's exhaustion or the wine that's making his feet drag, but he's ready to crash. He drops the bottle on the bedside table. It rocks, but stays upright. There's not much left now; he'll finish it in bed.

He peels of his t-shirt and the body armour underneath. He lets the armour lay where it falls, but he kicks open the laundry hamper to through his t-shirt and pants in. It's already full, and he knows if he's serious about moving tomorrow he should do laundry now. He's not going to want to lug dirty clothes across town to another safe house, not when this is the only one with a machine installed (it's why if's the one he uses most often - you get pretty memorable pretty quickly if you keep taking blood strained clothes to the launderette). He strips naked and scoops up everything he can carry.

It's too much for a single load, really, but Jason's fucked if he's going to abide by the petty bourgeois oppression of an operating manual when he doesn't abide by the law. He has to lean on the door to make it click shut, and he doubles the recommended amount of laundry liquid to make up for the surfeit of fabric.

He watches the front-loading machine start to fill with water, rocking the mass of dark fabric back and forth to start building up suds. When he's confident it's not going to flood his apartment, he climbs to his feet.

He's about to click the light off when something in the machine catches his eye. Most of his clothes are black or blue or grey, dark shades to make his hood stand out. But there's something white in there.

He knows what it is before he looks, but he still finds himself dropping to his knees and peering through the door.

The fabric is white with black stars. The machine spins, and a bolognese stain is pressed against the glass by the force of the water. And then the machine spins again, and the dress is swallowed by Jason's clothes.


	9. Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this while waiting for a bus (off to a music festival), so apologies for typos!
> 
> Warning for a very nauseous Tim. Do not read while queasy!

Steph drives Tim back to his apartment. He's withdrawing from the morphine, which means he keeps throwing up. It's a bit like a hangover, but he doesn't have a headache, his mouth is clear, and he only feels nauseous about thirty seconds before he actually vomits. It's a lot nicer than a hangover, really, except Tim hates throwing up and especially hates doing it in public. Steph is carrying a sick bag for him, but so far every time he intimates he's going to be sick she's pulled over and made him throw up into a drain. How she has quite such an inerring ability to locate drains with so little notice he isn't sure.

He leans out of the car door, seatbelt holding his waist in place, and retches in the direction of the sewer. His stomach is completely empty, not even acid left to come up, and he slumps with exhaustion back into his seat.

"This is literally the most wretched I've ever seen you," Steph says. "I should really just take you to the mansion."

Tim shakes his head. "If I don't pick up that package my neighbour will toss it. He's an arsehole. I'll be fine once I'm home; just curl up in bed and sleep it off."

"Yeah, and then go straight back out on patrol tonight. Nuh uh. We'll get your stuff, then I'm putting you under Alfred's roof."

Tim's pretty sure that once he gets out of this car he's not getting back into it. If he has to he'll eat something, just so he can hold the Compact's interior hostage. Steph has been very clear about what happens if he gets so much as a spec of vomit on the detailing of her adorable batmobile, but he's willing to risk it on order to sleep in his own bed.

They make it to his apartment. They take the elevator, which makes Tim's stomach lurch, but finally reach his place. There's a pile of boxes in the doorway, and a note.

"I'm not your fucking mailman," Steph reads. "Christ, Tim. You said it was one box."

There's more than a dozen, carefully balanced against the door in such a way they need moving one by one before Tim can risk unlocking it.

"Morphine. One click shopping," Tim says. "I think I may actually owe Damian a thank you for turning it off when he did, or there'd be three times as much stuff."

"Do you even remember what you ordered?" Steph pushes the bottom box of of the way with her foot, causing the rest to avalanche around her. It's an efficient way to clear the door, at least.

"Vaguely," Tim says. "I bought you... something?" He remembers buying underwear, and he remembers buying something for Steph, and he has the horrible feeling he might have bought underwear for his ex-girlfriend.

He unlocks the door and they bucket-chain the parcels into the apartment. Tim chucks most of them onto the sofa. He's reasonably confident he didn't order anything breakable.

"How about you make me some of that ginger tea while I open them, and then I'll have a nap?" Tim says.

Steph smirks. "How about I stay here and watch you open them, then mock you mercilessly because you ordered a superman themed dildo while under the influence, then we go to the mansion and you sleep off your shame there?"

Tim presses a hand to his heart. "How could you possibly know about my man-of-steel?" he declares in mock mortification.

Steph howls with laughter, collapsing onto the sofa amongst the boxes.

"Next you'll tell the world about Nightwang and Red Hard!"

Steph whoops, banging her fist on the arm of the chair, and wheezes as she tries to draw breath.

Tim grins and drops down next to her.

"All real sex toys," he says, "if you were wondering. Kon found a whole online shop and keeps sending me links. I think he's dropping hints."

"You have to forward me everything," she says, still struggling for breath. "Kara never DMs me good shit like that. It's always inspirational memes and uplifting photos she took while flying."

"If I give you Kon's number, you have to promise not to date him. He and Cassie are on the outs and he's gone back to the old fade cut, but it looks..." Tim gestures vaguely. "It's working for him."

"Wouldn't it be against the, you know, bro code? For him to ask out your ex?"

"I may have null and voided that when I dated Cassie while he was dead. And tried to clone him." Tim shrugs. "I mean, I'm only asking because, honestly, he'd be a much better boyfriend than I ever was, and you'd be a hell of a power couple. I don't think my ego could take it."

"He had a thing with Cass, so it'd be a no from me anyway. Also, isn't he, like, six?"

"Remind me to warn Cass off too."

"She'll date him just to annoy you. So, are we doing this?" Steph gestures to the boxes. "It's like Christmas in July! Well, in fall. You're your own secret Santa!"

Tim hands her one of the smaller boxes, and grabs another for himself.

Steph is, unsurprisingly, a tearer. Tim slices open tape slowly, opens lids along the folds, takes out each item and checks then against the invoice. Steph does not. Steph rips boxes open along sides that are solid cardboard. She tosses packing material aside with glee. She squeezes items out through too small openings and brandishes them at Tim for a split second before dropping them into the growing pile of recycling around her. She gets through eleven boxes in the time it takes Tim to do five.

Tim finds the bat barrette, which he remembers was Steph's gift. He slots it into her hair while she wrestles with a particularly stubborn bit of packing tape. He's on his last box now, long and flat and light. Steph finds the novelty socks, which she puts on her hands and starts sock puppeting with, even though they're just covered in logos, but her Batman growl is spot on and Tim had to stop mid-unwrapping because he's laughing too hard.

"It's that a dress?" Steph asks, looking into the open box on his lap. "Another gift?"

Tim pulls the item of clothing out. It is a dress, a textured grey t-shirt dress with big square pockets on the front. It's too small for Steph, but it'd probably fit Cass. But he didn't buy it for Cass.

"Oh, it'd go with those boots," Steph says, extracting the offending footwear from a pile of shredded paper.

She's right. And the boots are in his size, not hers or Cass's or any of the girls.

"Tim?"

"I think I bought it for me," he says.

Steph goes quiet.

Tim's nauseous again, but it's not the morphine withdrawal. The red of his nails is stark against the grey dress. It's a really pretty contrast.

"Try it on," Steph says, at the same time Tim says, "I need to return it."

Steph frowns at him. "Try it on," she says again. "With the boots, too. And leggings, have you got leggings? Skinny jeans might be okay, but the belt loops will show through and ruin the line."

"It's a dress, Steph," Tim says, hysteria rising. "I was high."

"A really cute dress. I know you've crossdressed for justice, Timbo. I'm not gonna judge if you wanna do it for you, too." She puts a hand between his shoulder blades, and it's simultaneously comforting and horrifying, because she's _sympathetic_.

It's too much, and he's retching again, sprinting to the bathroom through piles of empty boxes.

Steph follows him and his back his hair even though there's still nothing to come up. When he can breath again she leaves him to tidy himself up. She also leaves the dress.

He's lightheaded and exhausted, and suddenly it seems like maybe it'd be easier to just do what she wants than explain why he didn't want to. He's not sure he can explain. Letting someone so much closer to him than Jason, someone who thinks they know him so much better, see this side of himself that is still a stranger to him is terrifying. If she freaks out he's a freak, but if she takes it in stride he has to wonder whether she already suspected. And if she did, what does that say about him? He's a detective, a master of disguise, batman's protégé, but he can't hide something so basic? But also, she figured it out and he didn't? What would that even mean about him?

He peels off his shirt and rinses the sweat from his flesh with a flannel, applying some fresh deodorant. He pulls the dress over his head, smoothing it down over his jeans. It's tight at the waist over the bandages, and Steph is right about the belt loops, but otherwise it's a relatively good fit, maybe a little tight around the arms but that's common with men's shirts too. The Bo staff is good for his upper arms and shoulders.

He stares at his reflection in the mirror over the sink. Hie eyes are red rimmed and bruised-looking from the blood vessels that have burst from the pressure of vomiting. His hair is greasy and flat. His hands are shaking.

"Tim?"

He glances back at the closed door.

"It fits," he says.

"Can I see?"

"I don't know." He balls his hands into fists and shoves them into the pockets without thinking. He glares at mirror Tim, who smoulders back at him. "It's... It's cute," he says, "but also... I don't know." He tilts his head to one side, frowning. Mirror Tim cocks his head with a come hither pout. "The withdrawal isn't helping. I look like I'm a rock star coming off a five day bender and wearing a groupie's dress to answer the door to room service. I don't know if I like the vibe."

The door creaks behind him. He waits, and after a moment Steph pushes it open far enough to see in. He turns around for her opinion.

"Holy shit," she says. "Hot. The vibe is hot, Tim. How have you done that? That's, like, a cute preppy dress I'd wear with wool tights and cute boots in fall. It shouldn't look like that on you. All you're missing is some smudged eyeliner."

Tim glances back at the mirror. Eyeliner would look pretty cool.

"And a lot of concealer," he says.

"And, like, a mountain of breath mints," Steph says. "But the whole near death look is also kinda working, if I'm honest. You have to keep this. It's my duty as a woman of Gotham to make sure this hotness didn't get returned to fucking Amazon. Once you're recovered, you, me and Cass are going clubbing with you in that dress and eyeliner applied with a spade."

Tim scrubs a hand through his hair and wonders how much to tell Steph about Jason and Dusk and the other dress, which is still at Jason's place along with the blazer.

Fuck, nevermind the blazer; this dress would look amazing with one of Jason's leather jackets.

"I'm going to change back," Tim says. "Let's see how I feel about all this when I'm not withdrawing from hard drugs."

Steph nods. "Okay, but you're leaving it here while we go to the mansion. I don't want you trying to return it when I'm not here to stop you."

"Can't you just let me stay here?" Tim asks. "I'll be fine."

"I checked your fridge, and the answer is very much no, unless you think I'm really willing to let you die of scurvy. Besides, they're expecting us. Dick had already text to see if we've made it yet."

"What did you say?"

"That I abandoned you on the highway the first time you puked in my car." She rolls her eyes. "He actually had O check if I had, you know? So apparently my sense of humour is wasted on your brother, and nobody trusts me. What else is new? Get changed, hottie. You're too distracting to chauffeur around dressed like that, and I have to prove myself yet again to your stupid family."


	10. Monday

Jason is never entirely sure if he trusts Dick's definition of "cute". He uses the word for everything from baby kittens to angry ex girlfriends. He even used it to describe Bruce once. Jason doesn't like to spend much time at the mansion at the best of times, and he's in the sort of mood recently that's only one step removed from pit rage. There's a good chance if he sees Bruce it's just going to be a matter of one wrong word or disapproving glance: he'll punch him just to get some of this ache out of his chest.

But on the other hand, Dick is the only family member he's got on side right now, and sometimes it's worth rolling the dice and seeing precisely what's got him so amused. There's a decent chance he'll see Dick get punched instead.

Plus, Dick has guaranteed Bruce isn't around, and Alfred confirmed it. And gave him cookies, because Alfred is the best.

Okay, so maybe the whole plate wasn't meant for him, but he hasn't got any popcorn and this is the kind of show that needs snacks. Dick was right. This is _cute_.

"There were three females in the room with painted nails, but she singled me out." Damian is holding court. "I was marched to the chemistry lab and stripped of my self-expression with base chemicals. Were Martha's French tips subject to the same treatment? No, because she is female."

Most of the kids are wearing the same school uniform as him. They probably saw the whole thing, but that isn't stopping Damian. The super kid is there too, noticeably younger than Damian's peers and dressed in actual human people clothes, no tie or blazer in sight. He's sat on the arm of the sofa, swinging his legs and looking vaguely amused by the whole thing.

"It's toxic masculinity," one of the boys says. He wraps his mouth around the words like he learnt them today, and his eyes flick to Damian to check for his approval. Damian completely ignores him.

The super kid notices Jason and Dick lurking in the doorway and waves. Beside him, Dick presses a finger to his lips, and the kid drops his hand. Everyone else's attention is still on Damian.

Toxic kid is sitting on the coffee table, but he gets up and moves to the sofa, hands extended in front of him. Another kid slides into his place. She's shorter, and Jason can see Tim now, sat in the exact centre of the sofa surrounded by nail varnish and various tools. His hair is pulled back, a few strands escaping to frame his face. He's wearing an oversized t-shirt with a band name Jason doesn't recognise on it. He's pale, but the bags under his eyes are lighter than usual and he doesn't look too bad. 

"What do you want, Mia?" Tim asks.

Mia spreads her fingers in front of her. "On this hand, I want all five Robins. How you interpret that is up to you. On the other one, I want the bat symbol for Batman on the thumb, then Nightwing Blue, Batgirl purple-"

"Eggplant," Tim and Damian say in unison.

"-Red Hood red, and Black Bat black."

"It's going to clash," Damian says, frowning at her.

Mia rolls her eyes at him. "It's symbolic, right? Well, these are the symbols I want. I mean, it's got to be enough that they at least consider punishing me, even though I'm a girl, right?"

"It's protest polish," the Kent kid says, smiling at her.

"Exactly!"

"No offence, but why are you doing this?" one of the boys asks. If Jason had to guess, he's say he was related to Mia. Older brother? "You don't go to our school."

"No," Jon says. "Mine doesn't have dumb stuff like dress codes. I just wanted to meet some of Damian's friends."

Damian scowls at him. "They're not my friends. This is the Detective Club. This is serious. It's not a social gathering."

"You promised we'd have a Sherlock Holmes marathon on your home cinema," one of the other kids says. "I wanna watch Basil the Great Mouse Detective."

Damian's scowl deepens. "Well, obviously you need something to engage your brains while the varnish dries. If I were alone, I'd meditate, but I am willing to descend to your level."

"How does he have this many friends?" Jason asks Dick under his breath. "How does he have any?"

"I genuinely don't know," Dick says. "But was I right, or was I right?"

Jason inclines his head, as close to agreement as he's willing to go.

"Is that everyone?" Tim asks. He glances over at the doorway. "Dick? Jason?" He waves a bottle of Batgirl eggplant at them, diverting the attention of the whole group towards his older brothers.

Dick beams at him. "Definitely!" He bounds across the room and inserts himself into the middle of the high schoolers. They part around him like the red sea, staring. Damian glares at him.

"Nu uh," Jason says. He waves the last cookie at Tim. "I'd get crumbs on it."

He's not sure he wants to get that close to his replacement right now. It's the first time he's seen him since Dick's kitchen table, and it makes his gut churn. The kid looks good, but there's still something delicate about him that's not just the near-fatal blood loss. Delicate but sharp, like a beautiful stiletto blade: he could cut Jason to the bone with the right look, and they both know it.

"It's a protest," Damian snaps at Dick. "You just want pretty hands."

"Wanting pretty hands is a protest," Dick says. "Down with toxic masculinity, right?"

It shouldn't just be a protest, Jason wants to say. Being who you are shouldn't be a political act, not every day, not all the time. It's exhausting. There has to be a space where having pretty nails is neutral, too. The dress that's drying over the back of his kitchen chair is just printed fabric cut a certain way. It's not a banner or a flag or an invitation to argument. It's just Tim's.

He doesn't know how to say that out loud, though, not without making it obvious he's talking about someone in the room. And it sucks because Dick's also right. Just being willing to think about being pretty is shots fired. The nail varnish is a skirmish, the dress is a battle. It's not even Jason's to fight, really. He wants to be a lot of things, but pretty has never really crossed his radar. Pretty doesn't usually have enough pockets, for a start.

He wanders away from the living room, down the hall towards the clock. It's still early, but he could go poke around on the bat computer for a bit to see if there's anything to add to his current cases.

"Hey."

He jumps. Tim can move as silently as Cass when he puts his mind to it.

"I thought you were doing golden boy's manicure?" Jason asks.

"Damian is. He wants to show off," Tim says. "Why are you here?"

"Dick asked me over," Jason says.

"More on the Inzerillo case?"

"More on the 'is Damian being seduced by the super kid' case, I think," Jason says. "I see he's escalated to group dates."

"Meeting the friends is a big step," Tim agrees. He fidgets with the hem of his t-shirt. "I left some stuff at your place."

"Yeah."

Tim looks down at his hands, and back up. His eyes are so, so blue. "On a scale of one to Bruce, how badly did I fuck up?" 

"That's a hell of a scale," Jason says. He wants to fidget too, but his clothes are too well fitted to tangle his hands in, like Tim's doing. Kid's going to smudge his nail varnish if he's not careful.

"Jason?"

"I... don't know." He should tell the kid he'll drop his clothes back here, or wherever Tim wants them taking. He should tell him that it's all fine, they got a little drunk, it got a little weird, but their relationship has withstood some pretty serious attempts to kill each other, so it'll probably be fine. He should tell him it's okay to be a virgin. He should tell him it's okay to sack off the mission sometimes. He should tell him to see a shrink. 

What comes out of his mouth, though, is, "You wanna try that waffle place over on third some time?"

Tim looks as surprised as Jason feels.

He's just asked his replacement out.

Out, out.

On a date, out.

"Sure. I'd like that. Waffles. I like waffles."

"I'll text you, or something."

"Cool. Cool." Tim nods.

"Drake! Return with the blue polish immediately!"

Tim glances over his shoulder. The smooth line of his neck is broken only by a scar that Jason left there.

He survived that. He survived the other night. He's survived... a lot. Not like Jason, who died.

Jason isn't sure which is harder, sometimes, the living or the dying. Both weigh you down after a while, become the millstone around your neck, the scarlet letter, the thing that defines you. Tim is the Robin that survives when every one around him dies. Jason is the Robin that died.

"Drake!"

"Go," Jason says. "Before he bursts a blood vessel."

Tim's gaze snaps back to Jason. His eyes are sharp again, penetrating, and he crosses his arms over his chest. "You'll text?" he says. All of the awkwardness has evaporated from him.

Jason nods.

Tim treats Jason to a small smile. It's tight and controlled and a little predatory, and it makes Jason's pulse speed up.

"Speak soon, then," Tim says.

"Yeah."

And Tim is gone.


	11. Tuesday / Wednesday morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am genuinely proud of making multilayer bullet points work here. All those Web 1.0 html skills do come in handy!

*can you do brunch on a week day?*

Tim considers the message. Technically, he's off work sick, but the excuse Tam put about is stomach flu (she always picks something that involves gastric distress, which Tim suspects is a kind of petty revenge for everything he's put her through) which means if anyone sees him they'll know it's a lie. On the other hand, brunch being by definition between breakfast and lunch means there shouldn't be anyone from the office out and about _to_ see him, unless they're also playing hooky.

It's a waffle place, so brunch makes a certain kind of sense, too, even if Tim had been sorta looking forward to breakfast-for-dinner, and it means they don't have to worry about patrol later. It's easy to make an excuse to end a brunch on a way dinner tends to drag on.

Also, it significantly reduces the odds of sex afterwards. Which makes Tim flinch from his own memory, but he reminds himself that Jason asked _him_ out, so Tim has to accept the older Robin is genuinely willing to give this a shot. Or plans to retaliate by humiliating him in public. But probably not trying to kill him, not mid morning in the middle of the city.

Brunch.

Who'd have thought it'd be the perfect first date?

Jason's a genius.

*I'm on PTO from work, so brunch works fine as long as we're done before anyone from WE takes a fancy to walk five blocks to get lunch.*

The other advantage of midweek brunch is Damian will be at school, so he can't send an intern on a waffle run out of spite.

*Cool. Tomorrow, 11?*

Tim checks Bruce's schedule for Wednesday, and finds he's got an "off site meeting" from 10 until 3, which means he's either playing golf as Brucie or letting the staff think he is while working on a case. Either way, far enough out of the office he won't 'accidentally' gatecrash either.

*K*

And that's it. Tomorrow, he and Jason are going on a date.

Tomorrow.

Twenty two hours time.

Tim drops his phone on the bed and stares around his room at the manor. Twenty two hours isn't long, not when he'll lose at least 90 minutes to meals he'll be forced to attend, and a minimum of four hours sleep (but it's a date, so ideally he wants six or more so he doesn't have bags under his eyes, and factor in an additional hour of nervous insomnia), plus there's all those other bodily functions that take up precious minutes, and travel time. He's got ten hours, maybe, to plan for this.

Tim pulls out a notepad and starts jotting down a to do list.

  * study menu and select shortlist of dishes
    * nutritional content (not patrolling, less important?)
    * calorie (not patrolling, v important!)
    * seasonality
    * prep time (nb for small talk)
    * personal preference (what does Jason know about my tastes?)
    * back up in case too similar to Jason's order
    * ditto drinks
  * breakfast: need to ensure sufficient appetite for brunch without arousing suspicion
  * calculate travel time
    * study traffic data
    * shortlist five parking spots
    * walking distance (crutches in case I'm recognised? Or no crutches to reduce possibility?)
    * which car? Check fuel gauges
    * contingency plan for arriving first
      * how easy to see if Jason is there with going in? Check Google Street view
      * wait outside (is it a reservation place? Will Jason think of that?)
      * enter after fifteen minutes and order coffee?
  * clothing
    * dress? Will Jason expect it?
    * time to get dressed
    * ease of movement
    * risk of food stains
    * check weather report
    * back up options in car in case of emergency (layers?)
    * suitable for rest of day?
    * how fancy?
      * hack restaurant CCTV to see what patrons usually wear. Also waiters!
  * small talk options, not work related (see prep time)
    * food
      * history of waffles?
      * etymology of waffles?
      * flavour combinations
    * weather
      * check if typical for this time of year, maybe a fun fact?
    * travel (don't make it sound too onerous to get there)
    * pop media
      * does Jason go to the cinema? What does he watch?
        * too much like angling for a second date? Save for end of brunch, read mood
      * haven't read any books in months
      * what does Jason read?
      * podcasts?
      * keep bingewatch TV talk to a minimum. Don't draw attention to being benched



Tim makes a note of the time, and grudgingly accepts he's lost another thirty minutes. Still, he feels more centred now he has a plan of action. He notes down time frames against most of the tasks and starts prioritising. There's no point looking to traffic or weather now when it might change overnight, and clothing is contingent of weather, so he can put that aside for later.

He starts with Google streetview, examining the restaurant from the outside, but there's a large truck parked in front of it at precisely the most annoying angle to judge whether he'll be able to see in from the sidewalk. So he moves on to a CCTV camera across the street and cross references it with geotagged photos from social media taken in the area. The restaurant has outside seating, which is going to make waiting awkward. The windows are big plate glass affairs, and the inside is well lit, but from interior shots Tim can see most of the seating is booths, tall enough that even Jason would be hidden.

He starts a fresh piece of paper.

  * Wait in car if early. Arrive 1-2 minutes after eleven



(no later than might be justified by the difference between their watches - he doesn't want to offend Jason by making him wait)

  * go in, look around, if there before Jason take seat by window so visible



There, now he had a plan. If it's really nice weather he'll sit outside, but the current forecast is overcast and windy, so he's not going to waste too much mental space on running that scenario.

The CCTV also shows that the staff are in button downs and chinos. Most patrons are jeans and t-shirts, a handful in suits dropping in from nearby offices for late lunches. Clothing-wise, he's limited to what he's got at the mansion, which skews heavily towards gala and Wayne enterprise appropriate wear. Everything's either formal or preppy, and nothing feels right for a brunch date. Certainly not a date with Jason. There's a certain geek chic Tim wants to rock, and it doesn't involve chinos or a tie. Nothing is more awkward mid date than being asked to bus table four.

He puts clothes out of his mind for now; Alfred's laundry schedule means if he's going to steal something from another family member (which is looking increasingly likely) the best time to raid the dryer is just before dinner, when everything's hot and soft and cosy and before Alfred's ironing and pressing it and folding it into piles, because he'll never managed to sneak something out of one of those perfectly right angled stacks without causing an avalanche.

He checks the local parking situation while he's going through the CCTV and social media, and selects five possible roadside parking spots he can drive past in a single loop, all equidistant to the waffle place. As a backup he notes the locations of a nearby multistorey parking lot, but it's a poor plan B because he'll need more time to walk, so he factors that into his equations as well. He'll take the crutches, but if he gets one of the nearby spots he won't use them; the shorter distance means there's less chance of being spotted walking unaided, and if he's recognised during the date he can get Jason to 'support' him back to the car.

Okay, so the maximum amount of walking time he needs to allow is 00:07:53, based on walking speed with crutches, the distance from the parking lot, the probably business of the sidewalks and the wind factor. The minimum, if he gets the perfect parking spot and walks unaided, is 00:02:13. That's just over five and a half minutes' difference, which is not an unreasonable amount of time to spend sitting in a parked car. Add in time to pay the meter, a final appearance check, securing the car... He keeps working backwards, factoring in traffic, weather, possibility of supervillian attack (low, midmorning - the Rogues like their lie-ins as much as Tim himself does), getting out of the garage without attracting attention, programming the GPS, and loading the car, he needs to be ready to leave the manor by 9:53 at the earliest, which is also, therefore, the latest. If he wants to be hungry for brunch (but not too hungry) he wants to eat at least three hours earlier, so a light breakfast finished by 8 is perfect. He'll have time to dress after breakfast, so he doesn't have to worry about spilling anything on himself or being overdressed and attracting suspicion.

Brunch date. Jason is an actual genius.

  * 7:15 Wake
  * 7:30-8:00 Breakfast (two slices toast, OJ, coffee)
  * 8:00-8:10 check weather, traffic, crime etc
  * 8:10-8:30 dress
  * 8:30-9:30 run over conversation topics.
  * 9:30-9:40 recheck weather, traffic, crime
  * 9:40 prepare car. Programme parking coordinates into GPS.
  * 9:50 leave mansion
  * 10:50 be parked. Wait in car if early.
  * 11:01 arrive for brunch
  * 11:02 nail brunch.



That's a big chunk of his list done, and Tim congratulates himself. Dates don't need to be nerve-racking if you know how to prepare.

Next task: topics for small talk. If he can nail this, he can walk into that waffle place with confidence. How hard can it be to figure out a few things he and Jason he in common?

#

They have nothing in common. Literally nothing. Tim had gone through every single file on Jason Batman ever compiled, from the Red Hood's favourite bars to his book reports in ninth grade. So far, Tim's list of possible topics consists of "neither of us care for mushrooms but will eat them to be polite" and "both had to write an essay on the rise of fascism in early twentieth century Europe once". Scintillating conversation it does not make.

Conversation Topic | Me | Jason  
---|---|---  
Music | Grunge | Hair metal  
Films | Sci Fi | Period Dramas  
Games | D&D | Pool  
Hobbies | Coding | Cooking  
  
It's not an exhaustive list, but it's not a promising one, either.

Well, Tim can like those things too. He just has to know enough to start a conversation, then he can let Jason tell him what to like. Everyone likes being asked for recommendations, right?

The only way forward is to get deeper into Jason's head. The only way he can do that without leaving the manor is Jason's old room.

It's not like it's the first or even fourteenth time he's broken in there, but he's never done it since Jason came back. Alfred unlocked the door when Red Hood made his identity known, but as far as Tim knows Jason doesn't use the room even on the rare occasions when he stays over. It's still a shrine to the Robin that died, and, okay, Tim can see why that's weird for Jason.

Slipping inside feels oddly homey, like visiting a childhood friend and being relieved to find they haven't changed. He used to talk to Jason all the time in here. It had been good to feel closer to the boy, rather than the suit in the cave.

There's a spot on the carpet under the window where he used to sit, between the bed and the wall, where he could watch the door but also duck under the bed if anyone came in. He'd found Jason's porn stash that way one day, but hadn't managed to muster much interest in it. Something else they don't have in common, Tim thinks wryly. He thinks Jason must be bi - he hopes Jason's bi, or this date is going to be a whole different kind of awkward if Jason thinks he's a trans girl, because he's pretty confident he's not - but hadn't figured it out back then, or hadn't manned to get his hands on any gay porn, anyway. Tim suspects at least some of the stash is probably inherited from Dick, and maybe he should clue Damian in some day like it's part of the Robin legacy.

There's a Queen poster over the bed that reassures Tim; he can probably makes polite conversation about the band just as well as the next person. He queues up a couple of albums on his ipod so he can pick a favourite track to talk about, but hopefully it won't come to that.

There are three more posters in the room: one for Into the Woods, another for a stage production of A Tale of Two Cities that's signed by the cast (including Alfred). Tim's a little surprised Jason hasn't reclaimed it, but maybe he's forgotten it's here. The final poster send to be a white silhouette of a kissing couple against a grey background, but when Tim looks closely the background is tightly packed text and a tiny font. He squints at it.

"There was no possibility of taking a walk that day."

Something tugs at Tim's memory. He looks at Jason's bookshelf, overstuffed with tatty paperbacks with cracked spines and dogeared pages. It takes him a couple of tries to find the right book; he had to eliminate Sense and Sensibility and North and South first, but third time is the charm and it turns out the poster is for Jane Eyre.

It's very well read, even by the standards of Jason's bookshelf, with notes scribbled in the margins and faded post-its bookmarking specific chapters. He's pretty certain it featured in more than one of Jason's book reports according to Bruce's files.

It's not a short book, but maybe he could skim it, get enough of a sense to start a conversation about it and let Jason do the talking.

Tim drops into his old spot under the window, knees pressed against the bed, and starts flipping through the pages.

#

"There you are, Master Timothy."

Tim starts, whole body twitching hard enough to make the bed jump.

"Alfred! What time is it?"

"Dinner time, Master Timothy."

"What? No. It can't be." They eat late at the mansion to fuel up for patrol, which means it must be past nine. He's been reading for six hours. Jane is at the altar.

His entire research schedule has been blown by Charlotte Brontë. If he still wants to allow a minimum of seven hours sleep he's only got two hours to choose an outfit, research the history and etymology of waffles, chose something to eat, and finish the book. He can't go to Jason and talk about Jane Eyre when he's only read half of it: it'll be too obvious he's reading it  _for_ Jason, and then he'll have to admit he was snooping in Jason's old room, and Jason will think he's still the same little stalker kid and everything will just fall apart.

"Jane Eyre?" Alfred raises an eyebrow.

Tim nods. "I got really into it." He starts to lever himself out of his nook. As much as he doesn't want to, he'll just have to spoil himself for the ending online.

"One of master Jason's favourites." Alfred presses his lips together. "Perhaps, just this once, I might be persuaded to allow a book at the dinner table."

"That's... I really appreciate it, Al, but there's no way I can finish it tonight. I've got too many other things I need to do."

"So I see."

Oh shit. Alfred's got his list. Tim had left it on the bed, and now Alfred has it, and he's reading it, and this is how he's coming out to Alfred, with a bullet pointed plan for a date that... Oh god, he put the dress on there.

Tim swallows, fingers gripping Jane Eyre so tightly the paper creaks under his hands.

Alfred nods.

"If you'll allow me, I think I can make a dent in some of your other pending tasks."

Tim lets out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding.

"Sure, uh, sure thing." He forces himself to stop strangling the book before it comes apart in a shower of pages. "Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Timothy?"

"Don't. Um. Please don't tell Bruce." It comes out in a rush. "Not yet. Please."

Alfred gives him that serene smile, the one he uses whenever one of his charges acts like they're asking some unique and special favour that Alfred has dealt with a thousand times before. "Of course not, Master Timothy. I respect your privacy."

Not so much he didn't read Tim's list, but Tim's willing to let that slide.

"Thank you."

"Now, dinner?"

"Dinner."

#

Tim read through dinner, then went up to his room and read until he finished the book, putting it down sometime around 2 am. Well, not so much putting it down as falling asleep face first on it, but at least he'd finished it.

He wakes with the spine of the book digging into his ear. He squints at it, eyes crusty with sleep. Oh fuck, he didn't drool in Jason's book, did he?

He pushes himself up to sitting, arms twitching where he's slept on them. No, the book is fine. Drool free, and only slightly creased, but it's not like it was in particularly good condition to start with. 

He looks past the book to his phone. The screen is blank, and when he prods it it stays blank. He forgot to put it on to charge.

Cold dread grips Tim. What time is it?

He fumbles with his charger, fingers clumsy with panic, and manages to get it into his phone. The screen flashes up with the battery logo and 0%, and refuses to turn on until it's had at least a little juice.

Tim stares around the room until his eyes light upon the clock on the wall. Analogue clock. Battery powered clock. Nice, functioning clock. 

Clock that says 9:02.

Okay. Okay, that's not too bad. He got his six hours of sleep, at least. And he's still got plenty of time before the date. He just needs to adjust his timescales a little.

Tim takes a deep breath to calm his racing heart rate, and the comforting smell of coffee fills his nose, and buttered toast and OJ and laundry softener, and he twists around in bed to find Alfred has worked his magic.

He eats the toast and downs the OJ. Alfred's laid out his list for him, noting which car he's fueled for Tim and the current weather and traffic forecasts. He's also printed out the etymology of waffle:

> **waffle (n.)**
> 
> "kind of batter-cake, baked crisp in irons and served hot," 1744, from Dutch _wafel_ "waffle," from Middle Dutch or Middle Low German _wafel_ , from Proto-Germanic *wabila- "web, honeycomb" (source also of Old High German _waba_ "honeycomb," German _Wabe_ ), related to Old High German _weban_ , Old English _wefan_ "to weave". Sense of "honeycomb" is preserved in some combinations referring to a weave of cloth. Waffle iron is from 1794.
> 
> **waffle (v.)**
> 
> 1690s, "to yelp, bark," frequentative of provincial _waff_ "to yelp, to bark like a puppy" (1610); possibly of imitative origin. Figurative sense of "talk foolishly" (c. 1700) led to that of "vacillate, equivocate" (1803), originally a Scottish and northern English usage. Late 17c. Scottish also had _waff_ "act of waving," variant of _waft_ , which might have influenced the sense.

Alfred _is_ magic.

Tim showers and brushes his teeth. It's after nine now, but otherwise he's almost on track. Alfred has even laid out an outfit for him. Tim's a little wary of a septuagenarian British dude's taste in first date outfits, but his doubts are proved unfounded.

Alfred is _magic._

Somewhere in the bowls of the mansion's laundry room, Alfred has unearthed Tim's old Flash Gordon t-shirt. It's from the days when his dad was in a coma and he lived here full time, and he has a weird moment looking down at it in his hands, like he's thirteen again and he's still excited to be part of something bigger than himself. God, if he could see himself at that age, speak to himself, what would he even say? What would his thirteen year old self say to _him_?

Hey, he calls across time, remember how confused we were about Robin? How we thought we shouldn't feel this way? It's okay. It's okay to think about him like that. We've scored a date with him, little Tim. Lend me a bit of your chutzpah, Timmy, because I've misplaced mine at some point, and I need it because I've got a date with Robin. Our Robin.

Hey, his memory calls back, he's lucky to have us. We know him better than he knows us, so we've got the advantage here. We've known him forever. If in doubt, wing it. It's what us Robins do.

The black t-shirt is a couple of sizes too small for him now, hugging his pecs. "We only have fourteen hours to save the earth!" stretches from nipple to nipple in scarlet and yellow. He's got a pair of red skinny jeans that would go perfectly, but they're at his apartment. He doesn't have time to go get them. But then, maybe that would be too matchy-matchy anyway? He doesn't want to look like he's trying too hard.

He finds a pair of baggy jeans that might be Dick's in a drawer (but then, when does Dick wear anything baggy? But they're too big for Damian and there's no way they're Bruce's) and a pair of black Chelsea boots he normally wears for smart-casual WE events, like the staff picnic. For layers Alfred's provided a couple of shirts, one black cotton and one plaid. He can wear both or either, depending on the weather.

Is eyeliner a bit much for brunch? He thinks he could pull off something simple. It'll make it look like he's made an effort without trying too hard.

Thirteen year old Tim, still in the back of his head, is awed by the idea of eyeliner and how casually he's considering it as an option. Seventeen year old Tim preens a little at how far he's come, and that he's definitely cool enough to pull off eyeliner (though he's never worn it during the day before).

He didn't factor eyeliner into the schedule, but he also didn't factor the extra two hours of sleep in, either.

He takes his coffee into the bathroom and opens the medicine cabinet. It's sort of nice to live in a household where having a variety of makeup in his ensuite isn't weird, though the fact it's all carefully bagged up and labelled by undercover identity takes some of the satisfaction out of it. Maybe he should separate some into a case he can label "Tim".

Over the next thirty minutes Tim does his right eyelid in a single smooth sweep, and his left eyelid seventeen times. By the time he gives up on the left and concludes it's as good as he's going to get it, his coffee's gone cold, and when he attempts to chug it some escapes his mouth and splashes over his t-shirt (which also has some eyeliner on it as well). He dabs at the coffee with a handtowel and decides the right eye now looks weird compared with the left, so wipes it off in a fit of misplaced confidence that if he got it right first time it'll only take one go to do it again. It doesn't. After seven goes, he gives up, and decides "slightly smudgy" is the look he's going for. He returns to his bedroom to find that (a) his phone hasn't charged at all because he knocked the cable out again and (b) it's not 10:10.

It's okay.

It's all going to be okay.

He factored plenty of time in, and the weather is good and the traffic is clear.

Everything is just fine.

He's definitely not hyperventilating. He's fine. Everything is fine.

He blinks, and it's 10:17.

Maybe he should cancel. Maybe he should tell Jason he can't make it. He's sick.

He can't call Jason, his phone has no charge.

Oh, says thirteen year old Tim in the back of his head, you are not screwing this up for us. Not an actual date, with the actual Robin. You and me, buddy, we're putting one foot in front of the other all the way out of the room, down the corridor, down the stairs, into the garage, and look, there's the Chevrolet Alfred prepared for us. Nice car. Pretty car. <i>Fast</i> car.

After staring blankly at the vehicle for twenty seconds, Tim gets in.

He has a brunch to be at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, at this point I'm basically putting Dusk on hiatus. I didn't want to do it without another chapter, so I've finished this one off, but ultimately Unification is taking up a lot of my brain at the moment, which means updates to this are very much on the backburner. I have a much better idea of where I'm going with Unification, whereas I'm pretty much making this up as I go along, so chapters come to me as they please. I have a sense of what happens in the next chapter, but nothing beyond that, so until I do I'm holding back on writing that chapter (think of it as a way of incentivising myself). I'm glad you've all enjoyed it so far, and I hope this doesn't end up abandoned (if you've checked out my back list, I'm sure you've got your own opinions about how probable that is!).


	12. Wednesday brunch

"Are those my pants?"

Tim freezes in the middle of the restaurant, gaze dropping to his legs.

"Um," he says. "Maybe? I don't know."

"Well, I knew you wanted in my-"

Tim snorts before Jason can finish the line. "You should have opened with that," he says, dropping into the seat opposite Jason. "I'm sorry I'm late."

The kid's got coffee stains on his t-shirt, panda eyes, and the kind of bed hair people pay stylists hundreds to achieve. He's got that Tim specific thing going on, where he simultaneously looks like a million bucks and a hobo all at the same time. Jason doesn't know when he started finding it endearing, but he does.

"Nice shirt," he says instead.

Tim glances down, and his grin lights up his whole face. "Yeah. Thanks. I'm sorry I'm late."

Jason's been here fifteen minutes, because he figured Tim was the sort of guy to turn up early, and the wait staff had been starting to give him sympathetic looks. Okay, so maybe brunch isn't a solo meal, but it's not like he's been sat here with a drooping bouquet and box of chocolates.

"You already said that," Jason says. He shrugs it off. "It's no skin off my nose. I brought a book."

"Yeah? What are you reading?"

"The Laughing Policeman." He's read it before, but he picked it out because he thought Tim might like it. The incredibly dry sense of humour, left wing politics, and heavily caffeinated lead detective make him think of Tim. And hey, a conversation starter. Jason might not have been on many dates, but he has some ideas about how to kick one off.

"I don't know it," Tim says, leaning across the table to peer at the cover. "Norwegian?"

"Swedish crime novel."

"Scandi-noir. Cool."

"Founders of the genre. They made a movie of it back in the 70s with Walter Matthau." Jason spins the book around and pushes it towards Tim, but before Tim can examine it more closely a waitress appears.

"Ready to order?"

Tim's breathing shallows and his eyes go wide. He gets it under control in a matter of seconds, so it's not a panic attack, but it's still a very strong reaction to the waitress's question. PTSD from an encounter with the Condiment King, maybe?

"We need a few more minutes," Jason says.

Tim blinks, twice, and a grateful smile tugs at his lips.

"Well, how about I get you some drinks?"

Jason's got a glass of OJ in front of him. Tim looks at it, then at Jason. Jason can see his mind working overtime, and he doesn't know why, but after an almost-too-long pause, Tim nods at it.

"OJ, please."

"Alrighty then. Can I get you a refill, hon?"

"I'm good, thanks."

"Be right back!"

Tim picks up a menu and holds it vertically, hiding behind it.

"You okay?" Jason frowns at the barrier.

"Yes, fine!" Tim chirps.

Jason glances at the window. Tim's reflection is blushing furiously. Alright, fine, Jason will give him a second to get that under control.

He's still looking at Tim's reflection when he realises Tim's reflection is looking back. Whoops.

"How're your ribs?" he asks, before the awkwardness can set in.

The menu drops a few inches, and Tim peers over it at Jason. The deliberate eye contact reminds Jason of their non-date, and he wonders if this whole thing has been a massive mistake.

"Itchy," Tim says after a beat. "Just... you have no idea how itchy."

Jason snorts. "Believe me, baby bird, I know."

"Thank you." Tim fidgets with the menu. "I fucked up, and if you hadn't been there-"

"If I hadn't been there you wouldn't have fucked up," Jason growls.

"No. I've been thinking about, and I don't think that's true. Maybe not that night, maybe not that badly, but I wasn't making good decisions and there was going to be consequences."

"I'm a bad decision," Jason says. The words stick in his throat, but it's important the kid knows it, and knows that he knows it. The best rationalisation he's been able to come up with so far for asking Tim out is that as long as he goes into this with his eyes open, it won't be Jason's fault when it blows up in both their faces. Jason's bad news, a fuck up, the one who got what he deserved. If Tim wants to work out his frustration and confusion on Jason, well, maybe he should let him get it out of his system.

Tim shakes his head. "You're not. You've proved that already. You gave me your jacket when I was cold. You turned me down when I drunkenly propositioned you. You took me to Dick when I was injured, even though that was a risk to you. I'm  _safe_ with you."

"Oh, fuck no," Jason blurts, just as the waitress returns with Tim's juice.

"That was aimed at me, not you," Tim reassures her. "Thank you." He takes the glass from her hands and puts it down on the table.

"Well," she says, "did you decide what you want to eat?" Some of the earlier friendliness has leached from her tone, but she's still got a customer service smile on.

Tim nods at Jason to go first.

"Themyscira special." White chocolate stars, strawberries and blueberries, and a W of maple bacon.

Tim smiles like Jason's done something right, and says, "A Batgirl."

"Oh, sorry, hon, we're out of bananas."

Tim's smile freezes. "But. I." The panicked look is clawing its way back across Tim's face.

"What about the Red Robin?" Jason suggests, hoping to break whatever train of thought is barrelling towards Timmy tied to the tracks,

"No!" 

"You need more time?"

"No. No, I... I'll have the same as him." Tim puts the menu down harder than necessary. He flashes the waitress a weak smile. She returns it, just as lacklustre, and bustles away. Tim wipes his hands on his jeans, and gives Jason a rueful look. "Sorry. I, uh. I meant to pick something last night, and I didn't, and then I thought I'd nailed it, and... I overthink things."

"I never would have guessed." Jason rolls his eyes. "How do you overthink _waffles_?"

"I didn't want to get anything you'd think was gross. Something I'd enjoy, obviously, but something you might like to try a taste of. Nothing where the smell would clash with your dish. Under 900 calories, ideally, with at least one portion of fruit or vegetables and enough protein to slow digestion of the starches so I don't end up getting hungry again too soon. Moderate prep time, or, well, quick prep time, because I failed to prepare enough small talk. It was supposed to be different to yours, because then we could talk about it."

Tim sighs, mouth turned down in a sad little pout. He's genuinely disappointed in himself for failing to meet his own arbitrary criteria for waffle selection.

"Well, you learn something new every day. It  _is_ possible to overthink waffles." Frankly, Jason's impressed. If Tim puts this much thought into brunch, how he makes it through three whole meals a day without thinking himself into paralysis is beyond Jason. No wonder he's struggling to function right now, if he's trying to process his sexuality and gender in the same way.

"Waffle, as in the food, comes from the Dutch _wafel,_  which comes from the proto-germanic _wabila_ , meaning honeycomb. Whereas to waffle, as in to go on and on about how you assuage your anxiety about a date by focusing all your energy on menu choices, like I am, come from a provincial English term _waff_ , meaning to yap like a puppy." 

Tim's expression is appropriately hang dog for the sentiment.

Fuck, it's endearing.

And he brought up the D-word, which soothes a bit of Jason's own anxiety.

"So," he says. "Is this our first or second date?"

#

Tim relaxes. It happens in increments, with waffle puns and sibling woes and favourite Queen era and grapple design and scandi-noir. Jason teases smiles out of him, little chuckles, shy glances. It's incredibly satisfying, and he finds himself relaxing too. Tim's anxiety nil, Jason's charm nine billion.

"I have your dress," Jason says, as the waitress clears their plates. He nudges the bag under the table with his foot to make sure it's still there. "I didn't know if you'd rather I dropped it off at a safe house, but I figured you wouldn't want me to bring it to the mansion."

"Alfred knows. Well, sort of." Tim grimaces. "I made a to do list, for today, and it was in the notes. I don't know if Alfred got it, but, you know. It's Alfred."

"Soul of discretion, that man."

"I'll say." Tim fiddles with his espresso. "I mean, I know if I come out, it's not going to be a big deal, not with the family, but I don't even know what I'd be coming out as. A drag queen? Genderfliud? Transvestite? What if I _am_ just experimenting? I mean, my parents wouldn't have approved of any of this, and they're dead, so maybe this is just a weird grief thing. Grief is weird."

"I'll drink to  _that_ ," Jason says, and downs his espresso like a vodka shot. He hates the taste, only ordered it because Tim did, so he's killing two birds with one stone. Three birds: Tim gives him another one of those bright smiles. Tim's anxiety nil, Jason's charm nine billion and one. "You're not obliged to come out, not like that, you know? There doesn't have to be a big proclamation, streamers and a parade and press releases. Just wear what you want. Be you. Let other people come to their own conclusions."

"Are you bi?"

"Is that the conclusion you've reached?"

"I'm gay," Tim says. "I'm actually pretty confident about that. I've dated some amazing women, and it was great, but it was never sexual. It's just the question of whether I'm, well... not a woman. I don't think. But not a man? Not always? Or not what society defines as male, which is different, and more complicated."

"You don't have to define yourself for me. You don't have to define yourself at all."

"I do for me. I know what people say about labels, but I like labels. I like identities and names and categorisations and plain, sensible order. And I was trying to get off the topic of me by talking about _you_."

"Well, I don't like labels," Jason says. "Bi is fine. I mean, probably? But it's not something I dwell on."

Tim squirms in his seat. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. I should have waited for you to volunteer."

"I find you attractive," Jason says. "I mean, if that's the worm that's got into your head."

Tim swallows, and nods in acknowledgement. "Which me?"

"Worms," Jason says. "I swear, your brain is nothing but worms.  _You_ you. Drunk, sober, Tim, Red, Replacement, boy next door, pants, skirt, whatever."

"Wormboy."

"Yep. Wormboy. God help me. I asked you out, didn't I?"

Tim squirms again, but it's a happy wiggle now, gaze on the table, cheeks flushed, lips pressed together to hold in a smile.

"Boy next door," he repeats, barely loud enough for Jason to hear.

What is he getting himself into, with this kid? He's slit this throat, he's stabbed his heart, and he keeps coming back for more, like a moth to a flame. Jason can't see anything bright about himself, but Tim apparently does.

It's long past time to change the subject, and apparently Tim feels it too, because as the waitress drops off the check at their table Tim blurts, "I really like Jane Eyre."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah! It's why I was all over the place this morning. I was skimming it, just to get an idea, and then I got stuck on the incredibly gothic descriptions of her art - I swear, if you set it today she'd posting sexy vampire pictures on DeviantArt - and just the incredible descriptions of her emotionally abusive family, and then the boarding school which was so familiar, and then Rochester... I mean, he's not Bruce, obviously he's not, but you could totally adapt it that way. Adele is Damian. Talia is Bertha, sort of? Which makes Selina Jane, but at the same time, we're all Jane, aren't we? Orphans finding themselves in this huge gothic mansion full of secrets, and Rochester lying to Jane as much as he lies to himself, and having to break away and explore paths with other people to find ourselves."

"You read it last night?" Jason puts two fingers on the bill and tries to draw it towards himself. He proposed this date, he should pay for it. "Alfred put you on to that?"

"Sort of? I didn't know he was in A Tale of Two Cities. I've never seen him on stage." Tim puts three fingers on the slip of paper and starts dragging it back across the table towards himself.

"He's good. Not hammy at all, honest." Something clicks. A Tale of Two Cities, Alfred, Jane Eyre. "You were in my room?"

His vision flashes green and he swallows it down, but it scares him how quickly it comes to the fore. This is a date. This is brunch. This is a safe space. The pit doesn't belong here.

He doesn't belong here.

"I... yes." Tim lets go of the bill, which is a small relief. Jason focuses on that, focuses on the numbers, on the bills in his wallet. He only spares the smallest amount of attention for Tim's words, relegates them to the back of his brain. "It used to be locked, but it isn't any more. It's... it's one of my favourite places."

"The fuck am I supposed to do with that information, Replacement?"

"I don't know. You don't know what it was like, your costume in the cave. 'A good soldier'. All Robin, no Jason. I've been picking the lock to your room since I was thirteen. Listening to your records, browsing your bookshelves. So yes, when you asked me out, I went back there. I looked at your posters, read your books." Tim sits up a little straighter. "You're welcome back in that house, but I know why you don't want to go. I don't want to be there half the time, and I have nothing like your history."

"I'm not that person." Jason tries to strangle the words before they can escape his throat. "He's a stranger to me."

"Do you still like Jane Eyre?"

"Of course I do! It's a classic. Lots of people like Jane Eyre."

He's not that person any more. That child. That son. He's not. Why can't Tim see that? He's not that person.

"Well, I'm one of them, now."

"Good. Good! It's a classic."

"I can see why."

"Shut up."

"If it's the room of a stranger, why do you even care?"

"If I told you you had to dress the same way you did when you were thirteen, forever, be the person your parents wanted you to be at thirteen, forever, would you care?" Jason huffs. "You're the one having an identity crisis. I know who I am, and I'm not  _that_ , any more."

"A theatre kid?"

Jason rolls his eyes. "Sure, a theatre kid. Whatever it takes to make you shut up."

God, and he had been, hadn't he? It had all been such a privilege, plush seats and boxes and artisan candy. He'd have thrown over every other aspect of his new found wealth as long as he got to keep going to the theatre. It was the sense of transience, that every performance was unique, that really got to him. He'd persuaded Bruce to take him to every single night of A Tale of Two Cities, the whole two week run (plus matinees). He was obsessed with the subtle differences. Same words, same set, same actors. Sixteen wholly unique shows.

"Don't shut up," he finds himself saying. The replacement has always been too damn quiet for his liking, and he doesn't want to scare him off opening up now. "I mean, shut up about this. But don't... I don't know."

"Sure. But, hey. If I haven't fucked up too badly, the Gotham Ballet Company is doing Jane Eyre later this month." The ball is in Tim's court, and suddenly he's the one with the confidence and self-assurance. Jason doesn't know how to feel about that.

"Their Wuthering Heights was weak."

"Oh."

"But Wuthering Heights is a shit novel." Jason forces a smile. "If neither of us is dead by then, sure. Jane Eyre, the ballet."

Brunch is eaten, and lunch fast approaches. It's time to get the little lordling out of here before his subjects come to dine. Jason gets his way and pays, leaving a generous tip (god knows what their poor waitress thinks by now).

He hands over the bag with Tim's stuff. Tim takes it without checking the contents.

He got a good view of Tim coming in, too-tight t-shirt and low slung jeans (Jason can't imagine ever being as petite as Tim, but hey, if the pants fit). The view from the back isn't better, necessarily - it's not nearly as figure hugging - but there's something about the way the shirt draws attention to Tim's shoulder to waist ratio, the way the hems of the jeans scrape along the floor, the fact his shirt sleeves are too long and droop over his hands, and he's pushed his thumbs through the plackets like a kid in a worn out second hand sweater... It's cute. He's cute.

It's weird because it's his replacement.

It's weird because it's the weirdo kid who used to live next door.

It's weird because it's a multimillionaire who owns ties that cost more than Jason's motorbike.

It's weird, really, because it's a long time since Jason thought of himself as someone who'd go on a date with a cute guy. Hot, sure. Hot mess, definitely. And both of those apply to Tim. But there's a space in Tim's life that's not Red Robin or Tim Wayne or Replacement, and apparently that space is occupied by someone who can't put his eyeliner on straight and worries about waffles and toys with his cuffs and holds the door open for Jason with a dazzling smile.

Why on earth he's letting Jason into this space, Jason can't figure out. How Jason is supposed to fit in this space, he doesn't know. He's too big, too tall, too angry, too broken.

Before he can finish the thought they're interrupted.

"Timothy Drake-Wayne!"

Tim doesn't freeze. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't even blink, and that's what gives him away, because having someone yell your full name in the street ought to garner a reaction. Jason doesn't know who's shouting, but he hates them already, because suddenly cute Tim is gone and the young man is poised on a knife edge, waiting to see whether to fall into Red Robin or Tim Wayne.

There's an invisible shift, and it's Tim Wayne. He leans into Jason, just slightly, and Jason rests a large hand heavily on his shoulder. He feels Tim's muscles flex beneath his fingers, arranging themselves along an impeccably straight spine.

"Vicki Vale," Tim says, welcoming and world weary all at once. "Always a pleasure."

"No crutches?"

Tim looks down, like he's surprised he's not got them. Shit, Jason thinks, has he blown Tim's cover?

"Physiotherapy has been going well," Tim says smoothly. "I'm parked close enough by that I thought I'd spare myself the challenges of navigating Gotham as someone with a disability. I'm very fortunate, both that my disability isn't permanent, and that most of the time I can afford alternatives that present me with fewer accessibility issues." He gestures towards the cafe, encompassing with a flick of his fingers the step at the entrance, the narrow space between the tables, the scattered chairs and bags and coats that cause able bodied patrons to trip and stumble. Jason feels a pang of guilt; even though the crutches aren't something Tim  _needs_ , he knew Tim used them pretty regularly as part of his civilian identity and he hadn't even considered whether the cafe was accessible.

"I'm sure your friend here is happy to help," Vicki says. "You know, you look pretty familiar. I've seen you with the Waynes before."

Tim looks up at Jason. He's searching Jason's face for something, but Jason doesn't know what, so all he can offer is a reassuring smile. Whatever Tim wants, he'll go along with - business partner, study buddy, bodyguard. Hell, if Tim wants him to snap the annoying reporter's neck to stop her figuring out who Jason really is and blowing the whole family's secret identities to hell, he'll do it. She's not someone he'd even consider hurting in the normal scheme of things, but he trusts Tim, and if Tim needs her dead he'd do it.

"My date," Tim says.

Vicki blinks.

"If you'll excuse us?" Tim says. "He's walking me to my car."

Jason nods a farewell, and gets the camera flash in his eyes for his trouble. He squeezes Tim's shoulder.

"Do you want me to, uh-"

"I want you to walk me to my car," Tim says. He leans in a little harder and Jason's hand slips from one shoulder so his arm encompasses both. Tim reaches up and entwines his fingers with Jason's. Despite their relative sizes and positions, Tim is the one steering the two of them. Once their backs are to Vicki, Tim glances up at Jason's face. "I'm sorry, if this isn't what you wanted. She knows far too much; she's just looking for proof."

"If she recognises me-"

"She probably already has, but she can't print that."

"So, what? You wanted to give her something she can print?"

"I wanted to say something true."

Jason squeezes Tim hand. He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything. 

Tim's car is a sporty little silver number. His crutches are on the back seat.

Jason forces himself to let go of him. Tim leans against the door, digging into each pocket in succession to find his keys. For a moment Jason hopes he's lost them. It's a odd thing to wish for, and he doesn't get long to examine it before Tim triumphantly produces them.

"So," Tim says. "Um. This is my car."

Oh, Jason thinks. He doesn't want the date to be over yet.

"I had fun?"

"Me too," Jason says, though it's a weird kind of fun that's left him feeling like he's been put through the wringer. "We should do this again." Because that's what you're supposed to say, right? When you want another date.

He wants another date. Christ, what kind of masochist is he?

The wind picks up Tim's hair and tears it loose from his bun, wrapping the long, dark strands around his face. It tickles his eyelashes and he blinks rapidly, blue eyes flashing.

"I'll call you," he says, as he tries to tame the mess and nearly stabs himself in the eye with his car keys that he's apparently forgotten he's holding.

Jason reaches out, runs his fingers over the sharp curve of Tim's cheek and through his hair, pushing it back behind his ear for him. His hand comes to rest cupping Tim's jaw. It's easy, easy as thinking, easy as blinking, easy as the end of a good first date should be, to angle Tim's face up and lower his own.

It's the chastest of all kisses, the barest brush of lip on lip. Warm, dry, yielding. Tim's mouth is soft under his, lips slightly parted. He exhales as Jason pulls away.

"Drive safe," Jason says.

He almost manages to persuade himself he's pulled it off, the perfect exit, leaving Tim yearning for more as he saunters away. The look Vicki Vale gives him as he passes suggests it probably wasn't quite as suave as he hoped, but fuck her anyway. He's dating Tim Drake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still adding to this randomly when inspiration strikes! I have no idea where it's going (apart from, eventually, bonetown!). I'm also still working on Unification, but I'm trying to finish it first before I go back to posting so I can edit it properly, since it's a bit more coherent than this "but what if pretty dresses?" plotting ^_^


	13. Wednesday afternoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just <3 Tim picking Damian up from school fic. I've given the OC asshole bully the same name as in Detente, because I'm lazy like that :)

The touch screen on Tim's dashboard lights up.

"Speakerphone," he says. "Answer call."

"Master Tim. I'm not disturbing you?" Alfred's voice is warm.

 _"So. Um. This is my car."_ _Tim knows precisely which pocket his keys are in, but he checks all of the others first, just to buy time. There's a streetlight between them and Vicki which means she can't get a clear picture of them, which makes him feel safe dragging this out. "_ _I had fun?"_

_Tim's hair is in his eyes and his heart his pounding and his palms are sweating and he needs to get the hair out of his eyes but his keys are so slippery he can't risk changing his grip on them without dropping them, and if he drops them then he'll probably just headbutt Jason in the groin trying to pick them up and that would just put the cap on the whole morning, wouldn't it?_

_"Me too," Jason says. "We should do this again."_

_Does Jason mean that? Is he just saying it because it's what you say? He can't say it and not mean it, can he, not like some stranger he met on Tinder and isn't ever going to see again. It will be so awkward if Jason doesn't mean it and they have to keep working together. Unless he's saying it because they've got to work together and he thinks it would be more awkward to turn Tim down flat._

_"I'll call you."_

_Does he have Tim's number? Should Tim offer it? Of course he has Tim's number, he texted to set this up, but maybe Tim should offer anyway. Why won't his stupid hair get out of his stupid eyes?_

_And suddenly Jason's hand is on his face and his body is crowding Tim's against the car and he smells of leather and orange juice and maple bacon and he's so big he blots out the sun. Tim's mouth is still open when Jason's full lips land on his and it's only instinct that keeps him from making a fool of himself. He barely moves, but it's enough. He feels the smile start on Jason's lips as he breaks the kiss._

_And then it's over._

Except it's not, because it still lingers on Tim's lips, warm and dry and salt-sweet.

Tim glances at the mirror. He's still blushing, and his cheeks are starting to hurt from how hard he's smiling.

"No, no. I'm on my way back to the manor, actually." He's surprised to see he's most of the way there. He's trusting his hindbrain to drive the car, react to hazards, know the route. The rest of his mind is a warm, wordless glow. Wordless. Wormless, to steal Jason's description. He hasn't felt this good since Bruce let him out in the city with a grapple and he flew for the first time.

"How was brunch?"

"Good. Really good."

"I'm glad to hear it. Are your stitches still intact?"

"Just about." There's a dull ache in his side. He's eaten so much his skin is tugging slightly, but he's 90% healed now anyway, by his own estimation. Alfred might argue.

"Before you complete your journey, if I might beg a favour?"

"I owe you a hundred," Tim says. "Anything."

"Master Damian has been suspended from school, and needs collecting."

The world comes screaming back into Tim's consciousness, and he nearly slams on the breaks. The glow disappears and all the worms start crawling back in.

"That's... that's quite a big favour," Tim hedges.

"I shall exempt you from the other ninety nine," Alfred assures him. "Master Bruce is unavailable, and Master Dick is with his friends."

Justice League satellite and something to do with the original Titans, then. Both outside of Gotham.

He's already making a U-turn before he replies to Alfred. "I'll be there in twenty. Any intel?"

He hopes it's not the nail varnish. His relationship with Damian is slowly improving. Witnessing Damian's humiliation is going to strain it in the first place, but if it's Tim's fault he's been suspended then every bit of good will he's earned will be blown out of the water.

"A fight of some kind."

Fuck. "Did he hurt anyone?"

Alfred pauses. "He has not been expelled, and they were keen to stress the police have not been called."

"Oh. Well. That's promising." That's really not promising. Bruce pays a lot of money to Gotham Academy to make sure Damian isn't expelled.

"I appreciate that you are willing to step in," Alfred said. "If you both make it home in one piece, I... I am willing to permit outside food for supper."

Despite his overfull stomach, Tim perks up. "Junk food?"

"..."

"Pizza?"

"I will allow pizza, from one of the permitted establishments."

On the one hand, the list of permitted pizzerias does include some incredible food. They're all authentic Neapolitan joints with wood fires and traditional Italian recipes. On the other hand...

"Off list," Tim says. "I want Chicago style."

"New York."

"Deep dish or I walk, Alfie." It's a lie. He's pulling up outside the Academy as he speaks.

Alfred sighs. "If Master Damian feels the same way, I suppose I can be persuaded."

"Oh, I'll persuade him. I'm here, Al. Speak soon."

"Farewell, Master Tim, and good luck."

The ghost of pizzas yet to come keeps Tim's mood buoyant as he walks through the corridors. He has to be careful how he approaches Damian about the pie - with every thing else there's a high risk Damian will refuse just to be contrary. Maybe he can use reverse psychology on him?

Four teenagers are sat in a row outside the headmaster's office, several more hovering nearby. Tim recognises most of them from Damian's gang of friends, though the only name he remembers is Maps, because she has strong opinions about seven sided dice. She's promised to skype Tim into the next game she dungeon masters, and when she sees him around her white-haired friend she gives him a little wave. He waves back.

The air smells strongly of acetone. One of the boys has a black eye and a broken pair of sunglasses in his lap. He's leaning in towards Maps' brother, but otherwise his body language is neutral. Tim can't be certain, but it's a fair shout his injury wasn't caused by Damian.

"We should exchange uniforms," Damian announces. "If he is so challenged by the gendered implications of nail art, he will be rendered incapable by the sight of Mia and I in each other's clothing."

"I mean, you've got good legs," Tim says, "but I don't know if showing them off in a skirt would render someone incapable."

Damian's mouth snaps shut with an audible clack, and his head whips around so fast his hair whistles in the wind.

"I'm not swapping with you," Maps says, swinging her legs on the chair. "I like my skirt."

Tim looks Damian up and down. There's no sign of any injuries, though his nails are bare and the beds are pink and a little swollen. Tim's nail varnish has chipped a bit, but no one's tried to take it off him.

Damian is giving him a similar once over, and Tim suddenly remembers he's still dressed for a date, in a too small t-shirt and wonky eyeliner.

"Who are you trying to render incapable?" Tim asks.

Damian swallows. His eyes flick around the group, and settle on the floor in front of him.

"Place no significance on it," he says. "Is father not coming?"

"He's not available. Alfred asked me to pick you up." Tim glances around. "I mean, I don't know what the arrangements are, but I can give anyone else a ride home that needs it."

"Everyone's parents have been called." Headmaster Hammer stands in the door of his office, a teenage boy with a broken nose Tim doesn't recognise in front of him. "We don't allow strange men to take our pupils off the premises."

Tim blinks. "I'm Damian's brother."

"He's not strange," Maps pipes up. "We've been to his house."

The boy in front of Hammerhead snorts. "Not strange."

The headmaster pushes the boy away from him. "Riviera, you're next. Goldwater, sit."

"What happened?" Tim asks.

"I am ascertaining that," the headmaster says. "You may take your brother after I have interviewed him."

"Well, I'm here now, and no one else's guardians are, so-" Before Tim can finish, the headmaster is gone, office door slamming shut behind him.

Broken nose boy eyes the group disdainfully before selecting a seat at the far end of the short corridor.

"I'm not spending all afternoon here," Tim says. "I'm not an errant pupil. Hammer can yell at Bruce when he gets back." He sighs. "What did happen?"

There's an awkward silence.

Maps' older brother is the one to break it. He's wearing tennis whites and he's holding his friend's sunglasses in his lap, fingers twisting around them like he isn't sure he wants to have them. "Goldwater took exception to our... protest. He called Colton a-"

"It doesn't matter!" Damian interrupts.

"Of course it matters," Kyle says.

"It doesn't need repeating." Damian glares Kyle into silence.

"It can't be anything worse than you've called me over the years." Tim frowns. This kind of reticence isn't like Damian.

Damian turns scarlet.

Laughter comes from the other end of the corridor.

"You little hypocrite!" Goldwater snickers. "Acting so offended. Just because you have a fag brother, you little-"

There's a sudden smell of burning in the corridor, and then a flurry of movement and the resounding slap of flesh on flesh. The boy screams, Hammerhead's door flies open so hard it bangs against the wall, and the headmaster roars.

Silence falls, and it's Maps stood in front of Goldwater, hand raised to deliver a second slap. Her brother holds her back. The whitehaired girl is clutching a smouldering notebook. Everyone is on their feet.

"Oh," says Tim. "To be fair, you've never called me that. It didn't even occur to me." Sometimes he loves his family so fiercely it scares him. He could lose any of them at any moment. If someone tried to take Damian away from him right now he'd bury them. For everything he and Damian have said and done to each other, gender and sexuality have never been part of the battlefield, and he will defend Damian's right to fight him on any other ground he wants.

"You bot mabub on ib a ffffabbot," the idiot gargles, both hands on his bleeding nose.

"That language is not tolerated in this establishment!" Hammer pushes between Goldwater and the Mizoguchis.

Tim finally manages to parse the garbled sentence. He's got make up on, like a-

"The word is a slur," Tim says slowly, "but my sexuality isn't an insult. I _am_ gay. You're too late, anyway. Vicki Vale's scooped you."

Oh god, his sexuality is going to be on the front page of the Gotham Gazette tomorrow.

His date with Jason is going to be front page.

His kiss.

"Dey're gangin ub on be abain," Goldwater accuses. "Dey're infringin by relibus rights."

"I'm done here," Tim says, forcing his fight or flight instinct back down. A high school bully isn't a representative proportion of Gotham's population. The adults he works with, the superhero community, his family... Sure, there'll be some online trolls, Goldwater no doubt amongst them, but he already gets more than his fair share of assholes for the crutches. He's good friends with the block button.

"I am not," Hammerhead snaps. "You will wait until my investigation is complete."

"No," Tim says, "I won't. I'm glad to hear this school doesn't tolerate hate speech, but I'm not going to subject myself to it while you 'investigate'. Damian, come on."

Damian looks at his headmaster, at Tim, at Goldwater, at Tim.

"Wayne," Hammer begins.

"I'm going with my brother," Damian says. "If you insist on my presence, and therefore that he remains in this hostile environment, then the school should prepare itself for a lawsuit." He pauses, and adds, "We will return to our discussion of the dress code tomorrow, on my return."

"All of you are suspended for fighting for a full day, minimum."

It's increasingly clear to Tim that Damian hasn't thrown a single punch, but Damian only narrows his eyes and nods. "Friday, then."

"What happened?" The Mizoguchis have arrived, and the echoing steps suggest other parents are about to round the corridor. Tim grabs Damian's shoulder, steers him around the frowning adults, and on an impromptu shortcut through an occupied classroom.

They climb out of a window, in front of Damian's baffled peers, and cut across the lawn to Tim's car. Damian drops his bag on the back seat next to the plastic bag Jason gave Tim.

"Don't sit in the back," Tim says. "I'm not your chauffeur."

Damian pauses, hand on the door.

"Alfred said we can have pizza tonight. Order in."

Damian slides into the passenger seat. "I want deep dish."

Tim hides a grin. "You know none of the permitted pizzerias do deep dish."

"Tt."

Tim drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "I might be persuaded," he says. "I mean, it's not my favourite, but if we present a united front, Alfred will be so confused he might just give in."

Damian leans back in his seat and turns his head to eye Tim warily.

"You have already made the bargain," he concludes.

"Yeah."

"You had to be bribed to come here."

Tim glances at Damian. He's scowling, but his heart isn't in it. The kid is not having a good day, Tim reminds himself.

"I was already on my way before Alfred brought it up. It's more a of reward than a bribe. I need your buy in, though. Proof that we made it home reasonably cordially."

"Tt."

Tim bites his lip. "I'm sorry, for what I said in there. I know you'd never stoop that low. You're a better person than that."

Damian frowns. ""Really, your sexuality is of no matter to me. I only pity the men who will feel obliged to let you down gently. Really, the ideal sexuality for you would be asexual, so no one needs tolerate your awkward attempts at seduction."

This is why Damian drives him nuts. A whole speech about how he accepts Tim for being gay while simultaneously jabbing his fingers into the open wounds of Tim's insecurities.

"Gee," says Tim. "Thanks for the rousing support. So glad I came out to you."

"You're welcome." Damian misses the sarcasm entirely. "What did you mean, about Vale?"

Tim can see the conversation stretching before them, one in which Damian insults Jason as a failure of a Robin, a fool for dating Tim, a sign of Tim's foolishness, evidence of Tim's unfitness to be Robin.

He's more comfortable being honest with Vale than his brother.

No, that's not fair. He shouldn't lie to Damian.

"She saw me with Jason, and I told her we were on a date."

He braces himself for Damian's reply.

"When?"

"This morning."

"You were out of the house when Alfred asked you to retrieve me."

"Yes."

There's a pause. Tim's gut is starting to hurt as he waits for Damian to ask the obvious questions. The questions about why he and Jason were out, together. Why Tim dressed up to see him. What Vale saw. If it really was a date.

The waffles sit uncomfortably in his belly now, and suddenly he's gone off the idea of pizza. He finds himself eyeing the side of the road, watching for a good place to pull over. He's not nauseous, not yet, but the back of his throat is sour and he knows if the anxiety builds for much longer he won't get a lot of warning.

"You're benched," Damian says eventually. "You're not supposed to be doing casework."

Tim swallows, hard, and the sticky-sour saliva goes down eventually.

"I'm benched from active duty. It was brunch."

"Tt."

Should he be honest? He doesn't know precisely what's happening between Damian and Jon, but maybe Damian needs a role model? An honest, open, proud...

Bile rises again.

He can't be that. Not yet. Not wholly.

"Father expressly forbade you from working." Damian cocks his head to one side. "I want ice cream."

"You... Is this extortion, Damian?"

"Yes." Damian's answer is blunt, but when Tim looks over at him he's staring down at his raw cuticles.

It's not extortion. It's a vulnerable kid who's seen someone like him become the target of social approbation.

Dick would buy him ice cream. Dick would have known he needed it, proposed it before Damian was forced to articulate it himself.

"Are you seeing Jon today?"

Damian scowls. "Father will revoke permission when he hears about my suspension."

"Bruce is in space." Tim pulls off a slip road and heads into the city.

"He's on monitor duty. If you think that excludes monitoring  _us_ you are more naive than even I gave you credit for."

"He only knows what's been communicated through electronic means. He trusts Alfred to maintain discipline, and I'm confident if we tell Alfred what really happened Alfred will have no issue with Jon coming over for ice cream, and me and him can handle Bruce when he gets back." Tim flashes a smile at him. "We can redo your nails."

Damian flips the sun visor and peers into the vanity mirror.

"Jon likes orange ice," he says. He's still frowning, unsatisfied with something he finds in his reflection. He runs a finger over his eyelids, stretching the delicate skin and peering at his waterlines. "You're wearing kohl."

"Eyeliner," Tim says. "Yes."

"Grandfather wears kohl."

Well, that's not something Tim wants to dwell on.

"I want chocolate," Damian says. "We should go to Ma Granita's for the orange, and Ecco's for dark chocolate gelato. I will not allow you to dawdle, Drake."

Tim wonders if he's going to be spending this evening teaching Superman's kid how to get the perfect wing (it's so much easier on someone else). He hadn't really planned today beyond the date, but he'd half been hoping to get back to his own place at last. 

He can't help it when he's at the Manor, he just feel obliged to be  _on_ for them. To be who they expect him to be: the son, the brother, the partner, the CEO, the hacker, the genius, the imposter, the pretender... It's exhausting wearing so many hats, and he doesn't feel like any of them _fit_. He just wants to veg out and not have to worry about what someone might read over his shoulder or whether his resting face is cheerful enough or deflecting suspicion over the fact he's used up two and a half tubes of liquid liner in a week. He wants his own stuff in his own space and the right to keep his own secrets. He's tired of schooling his face to show his family what he needs them to see.

He also really wants to see what his new dress looks like without the sweat-sheen of morphine withdrawal, and whether it's second date worthy.

As long as he's gone before the Gotham Gazette arrives tomorrow, he'll be happy. Maybe he's a coward and a liar and a terrible role model, but he doesn't want to face the fallout right now. Another date, that's what he needs under his belt, a chance to reassure himself about Jason's intentions, before he talks to Bruce and the rest of them.

"You'll back me up on the deep dish?"

"...Agreed."

#

When they get back to the mansion, Tim gets the crutches out of the back seat, while Damian takes the bags. Damian doesn't mind collecting his school bag or the ice cream, but he resents having to carry Drake's items. He considers leaving the bag in the car to make it clear he's not his sibling's sherpa, but he conscious that his afternoon plans hinge on Drake's continuing support. 

Drake is being suspiciously pleasant about the day's events. Damian's training is screaming at him to take Drake out, to ensure that the knowledge he holds can't be used against Damian. Father would disapprove, though. At least he has Drake's insubordination to bargain with, though father never seems to take it as seriously as Damian feels he ought.

He doesn't like bargaining with Drake. It feels too much like compromising, which is far too close to agreeing. Things between them recently have been far too close to agreeable, and it unsettles him. It feels like a prelude to betrayal.

He can't trust Drake. He can't trust any of them. He tries, he really does, but his training runs far too deep. Over and over his mother would select a companion for him - nurses, tutors, sparring partners - and have them betray him, to teach him independence. He'd thought she wanted him to trust only her, but when she, too, betrayed him, he finally understood the lesson. Sometimes he manages to push past it, to squash it down, to sublimate it into his work, but it emerges at night in cold sweats and bad dreams. Todd in his old uniform, decapitating him.  Drake cutting his grapple line and watching him fall to his death. Father handing him over so Ra's can inhabit his body. Pennyworth tripping him on the stairs. Grayson leaving.

He sees the pain in Dick's eyes when Damian holds himself back from their hugs. He sees the disapproval in his father's stance when he assumes the worst about his allies. He sees the sadness in Pennyworth's face when he speaks dismissively about the bonds of family.

Drake doesn't care, though. He takes Damian's jibes with cool equanimity. And why shouldn't he? After all, he sees the world through a similar lens.

It's not betrayal he fears, but death. Either way, both of them are braced to spend their lives alone.

Damian hangs his school bag in its place by the door and unceremoniously drops Drake's plastic carrier on the kitchen table. He busies himself putting the ice cream away, uncharacteristically nervous about the conversation he knows is happening a few rooms over. Is Drake lying to Pennyworth? Does he really think Pennyworth will take Damian's side over his father's? The rule is that punishment at school is matched by punishment at home. Grounding, benching, loss of privileges. Rules are rules.

Ice cream stowed, he returns to his school bag to get a head start on his homework. He must be impeccable in all other ways if he hopes to escape condemnation. Jon is coming over.

Jon is the exception that proves the rule: it's not that his betrayal isn't inevitable, but it will come when Damian crosses a line Jon can't follow him over. More of a consequence than a double cross. It's reassuring, and Damian thinks that's why he feels more comfortable around Jon than the rest of the riff raff he's forced to associate with. He wants... he _hopes_ Jon feels the same.

Plus, Jon never gives him the pitying looks his family does. He accepts Damian for who he is.

He pushes Drake's belongings to one side. The contents of the bag spill out, and Damian tuts. It's a crumpled ball of fabric.

He can't help himself. He doesn't even know what it is, but it'll crease if it's not folded up properly, and it's unacceptable that an individual connected with him be any less than perfectly attired in public. Additionally, Drake may have hidden something in it. A bug, a weapon. An instrument of betrayal.

Damian shakes the item of clothing out. It's a dress, with spaghetti straps and little stars on it, and it looks like something Brown would wear if it had a larger bust. Maybe a gift for Cass? Damian wrinkles his nose. His sister has impeccable taste. She doesn't want a secondhand dress with- it's stained! Drake has tried to wash it out, but it's stained!

This won't stand. He can't allow Drake to insult their sister this way.

Pennyworth will know how to remove the stain properly. He's doing Drake a favour, really, if he puts this in the laundry. Wipe the debt he is starting to feel hang over him, restore the balance between them. There will be no more awkward attempts to bond. He won't have to consider Drake's feelings or how they reflect back on him. He won't have to care about the implications of Drake 'coming out' to him, or feel - not guilty, he doesn't feel guilty, guilt is for people who have done something  _wrong_ \- dissatisfied that his response wasn't as polished as it might have been. It wasn't fair. He didn't have enough warning. He'd thought... he'd thought he was the only one.

He swallows the thought back down as soon as it bubbles to the surface. He's not like Drake. Drake is weak and stupid and ugly and irritating and foolish and miserable and isolated and, and, and... and gay.

If Drake is gay, Damian can't be. He and Drake are completely different in every way, no matter what anyone else says.

Drake can't be gay. It's not fair.

There's footsteps in the hall and Damian shoves the dress back in the bag and pushes it down onto one of the chairs.

Drake sticks his head around the kitchen door. "And we're a go for deep dish pizza!"

His tone is jovial, but Damian hears the tentativeness underneath it, like he was trained to. As usual, Tim is guarded against rejection.

Damian stares down at his homework on the kitchen table. He nods acknowledgement, but doesn't raise his eyes.

Drake hovers for a moment, waiting for Damian to either thank him or curse him. Damian picks his pen up and marks his maths book at random. Drake leaves.

He can't be like Drake. At least, he can't be like _this_ Drake, skulking around his own home like a stranger, braced for attack from every angle, watching them all with haunted eyes. If that is the model he has to follow, Damian would rather die alone.

He needs to find Drake a boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not where I was expecting a quick bit of Damian PoV to go.


	14. Wednesday Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to violence against transwomen and sexworkers. If you don't want to touch that, skip the middle section and go straight to the Jason and Alfred fluff.

Jason ran his hands through his hair, flattening it down and out of the way of his eyes, before slipping his helmet on.

It's been a lovely day, but he's been hiding in his safe house all afternoon. He's batch cooked enough lasagne to last a month, grouted the tiles in the bathroom, washed his windows, reshelved all of his books and disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled all of his weapons. Well, nearly all. He has a lot.

I'll call you, he'd said.

 _I'll_ call _you_.

What was he thinking? _We should do this again_. Of course they should. Tim had been thinking the same, right? So why had Jason leapt in and announced it first? If he'd just kept his mouth shut it'd be Tim desperately oiling artillery and racking his brains for a second date idea.

Brunch had been perfect. It was a perfect date. A meal, so obviously a date, but not a dinner, with all the pressure of "do you want to come back to mine?". Has to be over by lunch , so clear start and end time. Simple options, so nothing to overthink.

Well, obviously something to overthink, judging by Tim's moments of paralysis, but they'd made it through, hadn't they?

How the fuck is he meant to top brunch?

Jason checks the time for the eighth time, and figures it's finally late enough to justify going out. Crime never stops, right? There's got to be some human traffickers trying to move people so they can get home in time for Game of Thrones, or a drug dealer who's babysitter cancelled, or triad members keeping an early schedule so they don't get jetlag when they call home. An early start won't hurt. He's bouncing on the balls of his feet and all this energy has to go somewhere, so why not some gun runner's solar plexus?

#

 He drops down into Crime Alley shortly after midnight. A couple of sexworkers wave to him, and he strides over to join them. A curb crawler pulls away sharply.

"Sorry," he says, nodding at the rapidly retreating tailpipe.

Christa shakes her head. "He's been back and forth all night. Seems to think we'll get desperate enough to give it away for free."

"Not sorry, then," Jason says. "How's the rest of the night been?"

"So so," Chista says, see-sawing her hand, and Penny shrugs her agreement.

Jason's known Christa since he was a kid; she'd sit for him sometimes when his mum wasn't 'well'. She gave him his first cigarette, taught him how to play three card monte (or molly, as she called it, cackling at the well thumbed Queen), told him the facts of life - all of them, not just the cishet bullshit they taught in health class. She's in her fifties now, resigned to a life she's had to fight for on every front. He respects her, but some part of him will always be seven years old, helping her hide money from her pimp to save up for surgery because she's capable of being scarier than a little man with a big gun.

One of the first things he did when he came back to Crime Alley was shoot that son of a bitch dead. He half suspects Christa knows it's him, but she's never said anything while he's wearing the hood and he isn't going to test his theory. 

Penny, next to her, is in her thirties. She mostly does cam work from her apartment, which overlooks the alley, but sometimes she comes down when she sees one of the other girls working on her own. She never works the corner herself, but she's often there, noting down license plates and memorising faces. She's even more protective of the girls than Hood is, ever since her girlfriend was killed, and her info has turned cases around for him before.

He shot the sons of bitches that killed Tiara dead too, and he'd do it again. He'd love to bring Bruce down here to face these women and explain his no kill policy to them. The pimps don't have that policy. The dealers don't. The entitled fucking frat boys who tried to make Tiara's death look like an overdose sure as hell didn't.

A car pulls up and another young woman gets out.

"Hood!"

"Zoe." He blinks behind the helmet, glad it hides his shock. "Long time no see."

"I got my top surgery!" She squeezes her arms together and bounces. "Look how cute they are!"

"Very. You use Christa's surgeon?"

Christa nods. "He's good."

"He is," Zoe grins down at her own breasts, lifted and separated by a hot pink bra visible through her white t-shirt. "Costs it, too."

"I see."

"Oh, no, Hood. I saved up like I said I was going to. I just had a little insurance... snafu. No biggie."

"No biggie?" Hood crosses his arms over his chest, tensing so the leather of his jacket creaks.

"Well, okay, small biggie. They got weird about changing my gender, now I'm looking for a new provider, but while I'm without coverage I need a bit of extra cash coming in. I'm still working at the Sundollar too, though!"

Jason hates this. He can beat up pimps and dealers for days, but who do you even hit to make an insurance company less transphobic?

Green touches the edges of his vision. It's not fair. It's not fair the world is like this, that so many transwomen struggle to meet their own needs, that so many companies find ways of hiding their naked prejudice behind legalese, that you don't even know who's going to fuck you over until they've already bent you over the table. What if Tim is with Zoe's old provider? Even if Tim isn't a woman, he might want surgery at some point to bring his body more in line with his identity, and Jason wants him to be able to get it without having to fight through layers of transphobic, misogynistic bureaucracy to be himself.

Tim could pay up front, he reminds himself. Tim's fine. People like Tim are always fine.

The green flares and he pushes it down again. It's not Tim's fault he was born rich. Jason can claim just as much wealth too, if he were willing to openly claim his seat at Bruce's table.

Tim's fine. Tim's smart, and educated, and rich and privileged and a skilled hacker who could take down any insurance company that dared to cross him.

"Which company?" he asks. Maybe he can't fix this with his fists, but Tim's hands do a different kind of work. "I know someone who might be able to help."

"I wouldn't go back to them even if they begged," Zoe says, affronted. "They don't deserve my money."

Hood snorts. "Fair. Let me rephrase. I know someone who might be able to help you get your revenge."

"Sweet!"

Christa shakes her head. "Don't waste your energy. The bastards will just pop up in another guise. You have to look out for yourself."

"Yeah, but even if it's just rickrolling the whole lot of them, it'll make me feel better." Zoe grins. "I'm a petty, petty bitch."

"Petty is their speciality." Jason snorts. "They'll email you."

"They' like 'singular they'?" Zoe asks, "Or 'they' like plural? Or like 'mysterious hacker' they? Or 'they' like when you're dating someone of the same sex but trying to sneak it past your coworkers, 'they'?"

"A bit of the first, a bit of the last," Jason says. His face heats up under the helmet.

Christa rolls her eyes, and mutters 'singular they' under her breath.

"You're seeing someone?" Penny asks, speaking up for the first time. Her voice is gravelly with years of cigarette smoking and Jason makes a mental note to have Tim look up her insurance situation as well.

"What, you think I'm all vengeance, all the time? I'm not the fucking Bat."

"I thought he was hooking up with Catwoman." Zoe's eyes are wide.

"No, they're on the outs." Penny speaks with confidence, and Jason wonders how she knows.

"So who's Hood's 'singular they'?" Christa asks, and the emphasis she puts on the final two words is scathing.

"No one you know," he says sharply.

"Oh, I know 'them'. I've had it up to here with 'them', appropriating our culture and retreating back into their privilege as soon as they have to face the real world. It's easy to to crossdress in college, but heaven forbid it get in the way of a white picket fence and two point four children."

Jason balls his hands into fists and waits for the green to hit, but he's angry in a way that goes beyond the Pit, and all he sees is red.

Before Christa can say anything else a car pulls up, undeterred by the Red Hood's presence amongst the working girls. Christa spins on her six inch heels and strides over to it, bending to talk through the open window with the practised fluidity of a pro.

"What's her damage?" Zoe asks, as a hand emerges from the car to point at her. Christa doesn't move, and whatever persuasive tactic she employs works, because the door opens and Christa swings her legs inside.

"Hood," she calls out, "They'll break your heart, and don't say I didn't warn you. You'll wake up one day and find 'they've' turned banker and _he's_ left you for a white girl with an art history degree and a designer dog." She slams the car door shut, and the vehicle pulls away.

"Seriously?" Zoe scoffs.

"She's got a very binary view of the world," Penny says. "I think a new romantic broke her heart back in the day, and she's never trusted a boy in make up since."

"A new what?"

Penny sighs, but it's fond. "Christa's been living with this shit for decades. I think she's mad that it's getting easier, bit by bit, even though that's what she's fought for. The world owes her, and she knows it, and she knows she's never going to get her due."

Zoe frowns, unconvinced. "That's no reason to put other people down."

"And who's lifting _her_ up? You, with your perky new-"

Hood raises a hand. "I don't give a shit what her motivation is. I don't give a shit if you tear each other down or put each other on fucking pedestals. I didn't ask for anyone's fucking advice, and I don't want to hear it now."

"What _do_ you want, Hood? Why are you hanging around?"

He doesn't know any more. He doesn't want to be here. He wants to chase down the car that took Christa, to drag her out and demand satisfaction. He wants to storm the offices of Gotham Health Plus and shoot every broker in the back of the head. He wants to drag Batman from the cave and show him the bodies Hood's confronted with every night.

He wants to find Tim, wrap him up and keep him safe and make sure none of this bullshit every touches him.

He wants to know how to plan a god second date. He wants to be confident he's worth a second date. He wants to plan a second date that proves he's worthy.

He doesn't feel worthy of Tim. He feels dangerous. He feels like the green-eyed man who cut Tim's throat. He feels like the red masked man who thrust a knife into Tim's chest cavity.

He turns. He puts one foot in front of the other. He's come a long way, he tells himself. His rage does not control him. He's in control of his rage.

He's got further to go.

His rage does not control him.

"Hood!"

He doesn't falter, fists clenching even tighter. He wants to run, but he isn't sure he could control what direction he'd go in.

"Hood, wait!"

He can't outpace the clicking heels with every muscle locked with fury, and it doesn't take long for Zoe to overtake him.

"My email address," she says, holding out a card. "For your friend."

Oh, right. "To coordinate hacking your insurance company." 

She looks down at it. "If you really wanna do something for your friend, find them a safe space where he can just be themself, okay? _Be_ that safe space. If they need to talk to someone about the specifics, the practicalities, I'm happy to answer questions. It's not so long ago I was figuring the same shit out." She flashes him an awkward smile. "If they'd like some slightly used falsies, I've got some going spare, and I know all the best places to buy cute heels in a size 12."

He reaches out for the card, and something unwinds in him. "That... I bet he'd like that. The shoes, I mean. Pretty certain he can buy his own falsies."

"'He', huh?"

Jason shrugs. "We haven't really hashed out pronouns yet. He likes labels and order and neat categories, and he's not committing to anything until he's certain."

"You can put stuff off for a long time that way."

Jason looks down at Zoe's feet. Her shoes are scuffed from chasing him. They're knock offs of some designer Jason doesn't recognise, the pleather overlay starting to peel away and the tiny buckles tarnishing. "Yeah," he says, "you can." He swallows. "I wasn't trying to misgender him, before. Being vague just comes with the territory when you're working with vigilante hackers."

"I figured, but you brought him up in our company for a reason." She smiles up at him. "You're smitten, aren't you? You never thought you would be, not with a boy, and it's making you want to hedge and procrastinate, just like him."

Jason flinches.

"I knew it," she says.

Jason groans. "I saw him in Dusk in a dress, with glitter all over his face, and I... I just want to make him as happy as he was that night."

"I bet you will, too. It's going to break so many hearts when people find out you're off the market, not that you ever seemed to go shopping anyway."

"You know my policy. I thought you were getting out of the game."

"So did I. I've got a lot less patience for it than I did when I was saving up, that's for sure. Making rent just isn't as inspirational. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's not bad work, and there's nothing else I'm qualified to do that makes half as much bank, but I actually kinda prefer the SunDollar. Better hours, more people to talk to, you know? Sweet coworkers and even the shitty customers don't really compare. I figure maybe I'll get lucky with tips tomorrow. I'm getting way more these days."

Jason can see a craving for a ridiculous fancy coffee hitting him tomorrow, all sugar and cream and the barest hint of caffeine, overpriced for what it is but worth a 200% tip for the girl behind the counter.

Bruce can spend his money on German spots cars and Italian suits and batgadgets assembled from parts shipped from off-the-grid factories in Russia, Afghanistan and Somalia, but Jason supports his _local_ economy.

He rolls his shoulders back, spine popping. "Zoe?"

"Yeah?"

"Where would you want to go on a second date?"

"Somewhere I can wear something pretty. Somewhere we could talk." She purses her lips. "Take me on a first one, and I'll tell you." She winks.

Jason rolls his eyes, even though she can't see it. The green has gone from his vision, and he doesn't feel quite so dangerous now. "Gee, thanks," he says.

"Any time, Hood."

#

He gets back to his safehouse in time for breakfast. He sticks the kettle on the hob and tries to relax enough to sleep, but without the distraction of patrol his thoughts return to the second date dilemma.

Tim suggested the ballet, but that's weeks away, and Jason wants to see him before that. Plus it seems... he doesn't know, third datey? Fourth? It's hours sat in silence next to each other and that's intimate, but it's a different kind of intimacy. Jason wants to hear Tim talk, watch him flail and gesture and enthuse and babble and glow. God, that boy is cute.

He's so cute he's shorting out Jason's brain. He nailed one date. He can nail another. He just needs to do a little research.

He pours himself a cup of green tea, and watches the steam curl. He needs help. Talking to Zoe has made him realise he needs to get out of his own head more on this. He's figuring some shit out about himself, too, and it's distracting him from the mission at hand.

He grabs the hood and jams it back on his head.

"Agent A."

A telephone symbol appears on the inside of his helmet.

"Hood. How may I be of service?"

He can hear bacon spitting in the background.

"Making breakfast? Sorry to interrupt."

"I'm always happy to make time for you," Alfred says. "You have an update for me?"

Jason bites the inside of his cheek. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Master Timothy was in a very good mood when he returned home yesterday. Impressively so, considering I had him collect Master Damian from school."

"What, why? You sadist!"

"I assure you, I am no such thing. I would have done so myself, but considering the headmaster's tone, I felt expediency was important."

"Yeah, yeah. Did you think I was going to fuck up, and Tim would need a distraction?"

"Master Jason, you are an intelligent, charming, erudite, attractive young man. Any individual would be flattered by your attention, and Master Timothy has had his eye on you since he was nothing more than our next door neighbour. He is smiling when he thinks no one is watching. He is oblivious to Damian's insults. He has been  _humming_ , Jason."

"What was he humming?"

"The Flash Gordon soundtrack."

Jason grins so widely the telephone symbol is obscured by the reflection of his teeth.

"I had every faith you would be the perfect date, Jason. Tell me, how did it go for you? Was Master Timothy sufficiently _prepared_?"

"He said you helped him out. You let him in my old room?"

"He let himself in. Charlotte Bronte caught him in her web."

"I don't know how I feel about that. Not Charlotte's web - Jane Eyre is one of the best books ever written and if he didn't love it things would already be over - but that kid, who lived in that room, that's not me any more. That's the next door neighbour he had a crush on when he was eleven. If he wants to date that guy he's shit out of luck, Alfie. Do I have to let him down gently? I don't want to let him down at all, but I want... I want to be sure he likes me. Not that kid."

Alfred sighs. Jason hears the clink of a teaspoon against the side of a tea cup.

"You aren't that child, but that child is part of you, Jason. All of your history is part of you. Timothy knows that history more intimately than you might want for a first date, but even had you been strangers he would have put the effort in to uncover as much about you as possible. If I were advising someone else, I might warn them about that, and suggest considering if it were a deal breaker in advance, but you have spent as much time studying Timothy as he has you. You admire his thoroughness. He knows you're not Robin any more. He knows how being Robin informs your personality now. Do not use something you find attractive about him as an excuse to torpedo this relationship."

Alfred's tone is stern and Jason feels his spine straightening despite himself. He doesn't want to imagine the consequences of disobeying Alfred on this.

"Master Jason?"

"Message received," he croaks. "I need your help, though."

"Anything I can do to assist." Alfred's back to fond and jocular, but Jason can't relax now. What if he torpedoes it by accident? With a terrible second date? Alfred will think he did it on purpose and cut him off. No more scones with that weird yellow British cream. No more earl grey and lemon. No more gossip sessions.

"I need a second date idea. I had one idea, which was brunch, and I've already used it."

Alfred chuckles. "I am an old man, Jason. I couldn't possibly know what young things like yourselves would do on a date."

"Liar. You are the epitome of suaveness. Suavity. You're smooth." Jason swallows. "Alfred, I've never been on a second date. I don't know what you do."

"Jason, as I've said repeatedly, you're an intelligent young man. You have everything you need to figure this out."

"Like what?"

"Well, what was successful about this date?"

"The time of day. That worked. Can we do brunch again? Would that be weird?"

"A day time activity, then. What did you talk about?"

"I dunno. Stuff."

" _Stuff_." Acid drips from Alfred's tone. "Stuff, Master Jason? 'Dunno, and _stuff_ '."

"Music. We talked about Queen. The etymology of waffles. Crime novels. Him being a creepy stalker."

"Well, you have already plowed the depths of waffles."

"So, what? A book signing? A midday concert? A photography exhibi- wait, are there any good photography exhibitions on?" Could Tim wear something pretty to an exhibition? The art world has also sorts of eccentric personalities in it. No one would even notice him.

"Tim opened the Cityscapes exhibitions at Gotham Art Gallery, and he attended the college's exhibition last week. I can check the listings. There might be something at a smaller gallery."

Small isn't good. Small is small minded. Small is standing out. "What about something photography adjacent? What's photography adjacent? Lithographs? Daguerreotypes?"

"The cinema?"

"No, that's not a second date thing. Is it? You can't talk to each other."

"It doesn't sound like you're enthused, which rules it out."

"Does it?"

"It does."

There's something about that which doesn't feel right to Jason. This should be about Tim and what Tim is enthusiastic about, not Jason, right?

It's hard building an idea of romance from the people around him. Rooftop clinches, lying about their identifies, stalking, beating each other up for fun... Well, they're all shared interests, but they're not exactly the foundation of a solid relationship. He's asking sexworkers and celibate servants for help, here. 

"Perhaps something more active would appeal?" Alfred breaks into his thoughts.

"He's got to bring the crutches if we're doing this as civilians. Vale nearly caught him out yesterday, but he spun it into an accessibility thing. God, Alf, it's watching him think on his feet, you know? Matching wits like that. I couldn't _not_ kiss him goodbye after that."

There's a beat of silence on the other end of the phone, and Jason realises that tidbit is news to Alfred.

"Alfred?"

"I'm sorry. I was... momentarily distracted." There's the faintest of tremors in Alfred's voice, a hitch in his breath, a lump in his throat. "I am checking the newspaper listings. Perhaps this will appeal: a pop up bowling alley."

"Pop up?"

"I'm quite sure I don't know what they mean by that, but I understand the exclusivity of the experience can be very appealing. And Master Tim can sit down as much as appearance requires."

It's kinda kitsch, which is right up Timmy's alley, and competitive, which they both enjoy, and they can talk but there's something to keep them busy too.

"Where is it?"

"The former Gotham Playhouse on Amusement Mile."

"Didn't Killer Moth wreck that place?"

"You're thinking of the Gotham Picturehouse. Ventriloquist briefly used the Playhouse as a base, but in recent years it's passed through several owners and last crossed our radar when Batgirl attended a rave there undercover."

"A rave, Alfie?"

"Indeed. She was investigating a fraternity cult, I believe. The article in the Gazette promises 'a late night atmosphere you can enjoy on a long lunch' with 'craft coffees and ales' and a 'doughnut bar'. If they are serving doughnuts at the bar, where are they serving the ales?"

It sounds like the sort of place where Jason will be the only one _not_ wearing eyeliner. Tim can be pretty there.

"Well, I guess we'll find out."

"You approve of the suggestion?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. It'll be fun. You're a godsend, Alfie, you really are."

"Well, I know my experience is some years out of date, but I have fond memories of hours whiled away at the alley with vivacious companions."

"Companions, plural, Alfie? Simultaneously?"

"Ahem." Alfred coughs. "As I was saying. The frisson of friendly competition, and so on."

Jason stifles a laugh, and decides to let Alfred off the hook. "Is Tim still staying at the manor?"

"Officially, but he gathered up his clothes from the laundry room of his own accord, and was coy about his breakfast order. I am sceptical about seeing him this morning."

"I might call him this evening then, once he's back on his own territory. You won't say anything, will you?"

"Well gosh, Master Jason, after all these years of keeping Batman's identity a secret, I don't know if I could possibly keep such a shocking revelation as your second date plans confidential for whole hours."

Jason can't hold back the laughter this time, and as it escapes him so does the tension still lingering in his large frame. He loves Alfred, loves him wholeheartedly and unconditionally. And if he can love Alfred without fear, maybe he can walk boldly into affection with other people as well. Maybe he's not too broken, too scarred, too mad.

"You will join me for tea soon," Alfred says as Jason gets his breath back.

"I will. I swear I will. We can swap bowling alley seduction tips, and you can share your secrets, you sly old dog."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Master Jason, and that's my final word on the matter."

"Sure it is, Alfie. Speak soon."

"Farewell, Master Jason, sleep well."

"I'll do my best."

The phone symbol disappears.

Bowling. Kitschy, self-indulgent, hipster bowling. They can talk and play and tease and flirt. He might even broach the topic of pronouns.

Or he might not.

But bowling, though.

He's never actually been bowling, but hey, how hard can it be?


End file.
